


And Simon was alone

by Nilysil



Category: SOMA (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Corpse Desecration, Depression, Desperation, Gen, Hallucinations, Loneliness, Manifestations, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mercy Killing, Misery, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Game, Psychological Trauma, Self-Mutilation, Survival, decompression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 40,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilysil/pseuds/Nilysil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ARK is launched; human history will live on among the stars - along with those from Pathos-2</p><p>But for what remains of the person called Simon Jarret on the remains of earth, life just goes on.</p><p>Alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An inescapable reality

"Don't leave me alone," Simon's voice cracks, the remains of 'his' vocal cords choke in the stump of 'his' neck. In front of him the screen draws blanks, failing to buffer. "Catherine... ?" Lines repeat. Failing to bring her consciousness back to the screen - the screen flickers off. "Catherine?"

"Catherine?"

Silence. She's gone.

She's gone.

"Catherine?" He whispers, the tightness in his throat doesn't hold it back - and that tears that might just start flowing can't - he has no eyes. With the mangled remains of his left arm he reaches out. The remains of twisted bone and torn muscle barely reach the panel with the activation switch - his right reaches to the screen. "No, no no no no, don't leave me alone."

The abyssal tones return, faint currents roll across what remains of the Omega Space gun and the dome's cage - well rusted joints grind and cry around him - still stuck in the pilot seat.

"This isn't funny, Catherine." There's an empty laugh - his speaker can only convey so much. "Haha, very funny," the screen is still pitch black - the lights around it have gone dark. "That's enough. You can come back now." His working right hand pushes against one of the pilot seat's ribs, 'his' elbow locks into place.

"Come on, Catherine," he shoves against the rib with his right, and wedges the remains of his left against the other rib. Only the abyss answers back, with a distant groan of currents on metal and the scrapings of a large body against the cage. "Catherine ... " The auditory mimic of a breath comes over his speaker - "stop fucking around!"

Simon strikes the pilot seat's rib, the outer lining of the diving suit scrapes against the metal. "Fucking -" he pushes against it with his mangled arm, " - stop - " he elbows the metal, putting his weight on the bar "- fucking - " he pulls away and shoves himself against the rib again " - around!"

Over and over, and over and over again.

The stump of his left hand strikes against the rib and breaks off a splinter of bone - digging it into Simon's arm. He screams, his words are a jumble of non-words and mechanical sounds.

Again he strikes the pilot seat's rib, feeling the metal give ever so slightly. A strike of metal on metal, the rattle of metal rubbing against metal, thrust of metal against metal. Dents form on the pilot seat and spot along the diving suit. One more strike against the rib and Simon pulls his arms in, holding his head casing with one hand and the mangled remains of an arm.

The breathing from his speaker is rapid - spotted by glitchy mutters and whispers.

"Itsokayitsokay.calmdowncalmdown," his speaker squawks.

Breathing techniques will not work for him - empty lungs breath dead air against his cybernetic head. "CalmdownSimon.CalmdownSimon." It doesn't work - of course it doesn't fucking work - what does he expect? Simon rocks in the pilot seat, wrapping his arms around himself - what he wouldn't give to have a hug. "Calmdown,thinkthisthrough,Simon." His speakers mimics the sound of blowing air - inside the stolen body he holds the stale air in his lungs.

He counts to twenty - slowly.

At ten his rocking nearly ceases - at twenty he is sitting still. He counts down to zero, speaking each one.

"Twenty,nineteen,eighteen,seventeen," his speaker makes a swallowing gulp - 'his' throat mimics. "Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen." All the way back to zero. For now, he's calm again, looking around the darkness that enveloped him. "Focus, Simon," he swallows 'his' throat.

With his right hand he feels around the pilot seat's ribs, tracing the bends and notches made in his panic. It still surrounds him, keeping him in place - alone in the abyss.

Alone.

Forever.

The bulky diving suit makes it hard for him to move. With his right Simon outlines the pilot seat's ribbing, pressing against the minor alterations in the metal for a weak point - somewhere to bend it away. Of course, Simon thinks to himself, he's not that lucky. It was still mostly intact, with only bends in the metal underside and slashes to the softer top that made up the arm rest. Feeling along to further back on the ribbing forces him to lean off to the left, forcing his head casing against the pilot seat's head unit.

"Stay calm, Simon," he whisper to himself - his vision clicks with static. "You're okay."

Along the right rib's welding to the pilot seat, he can barely feel a breakage - but he's not sure how well he can trust the surface of the diving suit's fingers, especially without any vision. In a moment of thought, he clicks on his flashlight - but it's useless.

He can't bend over that far to check.

Simon clicks his flashlight back off. The abyssal darkness surrounds him again.

He clicks it back on - even as he thought about how much power the battery melted into 'his' stolen body might still have left. Would he make it through the next 24 hours? The next 48?

Simon clicks the flashlight back off, again. With the elbow of his right he elbows the joint with as much force he can muster.

Would he be able to speak with anyone again? Metal contacts metal; they ring.

Who would he even speak to, if it's not Catherine? He elbows the joint again.

Would the door opener still work - was there still power to the rest of Pathos-2? Again.

Memories of the walk to Tau from the climber fill his cortex as he keeps slamming the joint.

Thumbing around the base of the climber for the way to Tau. Following the lights through the depths of the abyss. Having to follow a drone halfway through when the lights cut out - left by himself when a monster tore it away. Cramped tunnels. An angler fish with a human face. The torrential currents that beat him down the entire way - nearly tearing the lights from the path.

The worm thing - he still has a tear in the back of the diving suit - it was still out there. How long will it still survive; does it need the WAU?

With each slam of elbow against the pilot seat rib, the joint of the diving suit presses against fabric and skin. Simon can't help but ignore the pain - it was his only way out, right?

But ...

Was it even worth trying?

"Oh god," Simon whimpers, curling into a pathetic ball trapped in metal.

"It's eaSIER to jUSt Die NOW, iSN'T tHAT RIghT?" his speaker skips, vision swarming with glitches unseen to his optics - everything is just darkness. "EAsieR tO JuST dIE nOW", his speaker repeats, "I'mfUCKinGsTUCK HERE," his audio clicks, "Simon is FINE oN THe aRK."

"EasiER to JUST diE," his speaker repeats again - he holds his head.

"No. No, no no nononononononono," he slams his elbow into the joint again. "I mADe IT tHIS FAr," his audio clicks again, followed by the hush of a mimicked exhale of nonexistent air. "OkAY, SiMON," he leans back against the chair, "tHINK, thinK. Think for a fucking moMENT"

Inside the suit repeats the mock breaths as Simon sits still, holding one hand to the front of the diving suit. Absent-minded, he flicks the flashlight a few times - each time the dead deep grey of the inner part of the pilot seat stares him down. Could he just move that part out of the way?

He's still stuck in a seated position; could he even still force his way out at this point?

A mimic of a swallow - he feels the torn throat copy the sound. "Okay. So, there has to be a way out of this." Simon leaves the light on, surveying the area around the front of the pilot seat. The ribs were still intact, the head unit hovers above him, the panel with the launch button pins him away from escaping from that side - the monitor on the right on the other. If he was still in his previous - his body from Omicron - he could've probably wiggled out on the left side.

All that leaves is the monitor he last saw Catherine on - right in front of him.

It hung off a strap of metal that fixed it to the monitor on his right. The keyboard had marks from his earlier flailing - bent on the bottom and the face broken. If he breaks the monitor off of its mounting, then he'd be free.

Simon strikes the keyboard with a heavy boot, holding himself with one and a half hands in place.

The first kick dents the bottom of the keyboard frame and brings it closer to the mounting, the next several kicks do the same. Each kick of shin-guard against the keyboard frame frees each little bit of room, the mangled plastic and metal contorting against itself. If he had a mouth, he'd be biting his tongue; the metal of the suit's shin has started biting into his leg.

After some time there is enough room for Simon to pull his other leg up - letting his inward bent shin rest against the side of the seat. A part of him wants to stop - the pain from his shin and elbow overwhelms his hijacked senses.

That part of him would've given up in Upsilon.

With his good leg he strikes the monitor. Simon imagines Catherine's face is still there - chewing him up for his frustration. That he knew this was going to happen, that they completed their 'mission'. That it'd just be better to just die now. He keeps kicking at it, furthering the spider-web cracks in the specialized glass.

That's real easy to say when your consciousness is tied to the power.

Simon turns off the flashlight - he doesn't want to imagine it anymore.

"You could've fucking given it some thought before we launched the fucking ARK," he tells her invisible presence - she's still here. But she might as well not be. She's still in the door lock  - omnitool - whatever. If he manages to find a panel with power he can yell at her then. Simon turns the flashlight on. The lower portion of the monitor hangs there crushed, the keyboard still hanging from the bottom.

"You got to be fucking kidding me," he groans, readying another kick.

He doesn't know how long he spent kicking the monitor.

Eventually the monitor hangs listlessly from its mounting, flapping with each following kick from the diving suit. His kicks went from just generally around the monitor to where it was fixed to the metal arm, hoping to free some more room.

As it turns out, the metal there is a lot thicker. Simon just lets out another groan.

He gauges the clearance between the remains of the monitor and the launch panel. Just a little too less for him to squeeze through. Though, he could maybe force the monitor back a little more, give himself just enough room to wiggle out of the pilot seat. But, before that, he needs to give himself some rest.

'Easier to just die' clicks through his idle thoughts.

It keeps coming back to him every couple seconds.


	2. Escape the seat

He's not sure how long he wallows in self-pity.

The things he should've done back in Toronto, before the accident. Maybe he could've held his tongue a bit more, maybe he could've done things different, or done things he might've actually enjoyed. The accident, could he have prevented it? It hasn't been that long since it happened - it's partly true. For him it was a couple weeks. But it was over a hundred years ago. Can't change that - can't change anything from when he was actually human.

Wasn't he still technically human, though? He feels pain, he thinks, he survived this long to get to the damn abyss. Where there is nothing, just the abyss and whatever WAU monstrosities are still hanging around. And he killed it, right? That's why he only has half of a left arm. If he was human wouldn't he died from blood loss by now?

Simon kicks the monitor with his better left leg - his right still lays off to the side with its inward bent shin. "Come on, you stupid fucking thing. Move." Another kick, metal barely moves. "Move!" There's a few more before the metal of the left leg's shin bites into his leg. "Son of a fuck," he growls. Either he could keep going and risk crippling both of his legs, or figure some other way out.

He slams the pilot seat’s rib, arm rest, he doesn’t care. “Fuck.” So far he has the partly busted pilot seat rib and the crumpled monitor and keyboard in front of him. There is some room he might manage to fit through, but he could also risk getting stuck between the monitor and the left side of the pilot seat. And there is no one around to help him if the latter does happen.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles. With his good arm he reaches over the dome that makes his head and pushes against the top of the pilot seat’s head unit. His partly crumpled right leg bends out of the way as with the heel of his left he digs against the metal, pulling himself downward. He takes it slowly; scooting himself inch by inch off the pilot seat, pulling with his left heel and pushing with his right hand. With his left arm and right leg he braces himself downwards. Simon leaves the flashlight off; he feels his way down the bumps of metal and edges of well smashed keyboard and monitor.

As with everything else down in the abyss, he has no idea how long it takes to get out of the damned seat.

But at the end, after clearing his oversized helmet from beneath the jagged metal, he sits up – finally free from the damn pilot seat. A moment of joy is quick to pass – he made it out the seat but he is still in the abyss. Still miles from the climber, miles from the surface. There’s still so much /bullshit/ he needs to work through.

And he turns on the light.

The metal railings were still there, the cat-walk didn’t change, the console on the other side of the platform was still in shape. Next thing for him to do was to get the door-opener, omnitool, freed. The Omni-tool and Catherine’s consciousness – his only hope for companionship down in the depths.

It doesn’t take him to stand up to realize; it’s still attached to the console.

If he did one thing wrong, it could ruin the omnitool and he’d have to find ways around the underground encampments, with all the monsters still out there.

Once again, Simon finds himself sitting in silence.

Thinking.

What now?

He’d only plan to get out of the pilot seat, not how to get out of the launch dome, or how to get the omnitool back to being a hand-held. He should’ve given it more thought, he should’ve took his time figuring out his situation; if he did he’d probably not have a busted right shin. He’s always been like this, he finds himself thinking again; being a moron when it comes to planning.

His audio system mimics a deep breath and he feels the deep breath – hijacked lungs breathing in the copper taste that no doubt swarmed around inside the suit. “Deep breaths,” Simon tells himself, “you can do this. There has to be something around here that could be of some use.”

Simon moves to stand, stumbling into the shot of agony that shoots through his right leg – the metal bites into flesh again. His audio system hisses, he holds the shin with his only hand, and sits back down.

He’ll give it some time, then resume the search for something to get the omnitool free.

The pain surging from his right shin slowly starts to subside, replaced by a dull ache as he sits dug deep into his own thoughts. If he could barely walk, how is he going to deal with the monster still in Theta, or escape the other WAU creatures that may not be affected by the AI’s passing. Would those infected by WAU still be able to move around; would they still be able to attack him on sight? To whatever god may still be out there, Simon hopes all the monsters are just gone, lying somewhere shriving up on the sea bed.

He’s never been one to have any such luck.

If he got to Theta, or even made it through Theta to the climber, who’d say there wouldn’t be at least something there to block the way.

Catherine would, but she may as well just be dead.

He still needs to figure out how to get the omnitool from its housing and get back into Phi.

How would he do that?

He has no fucking clue.

Simon slowly forces himself to his feet, careful of how he moves his right leg. The water the surrounds him makes it harder to force himself up – the pressure centering in on the caving in his shin. But he damn well tries, letting the boot rest on the front tip and letting his leg slump slightly down. It doesn’t make it easier to move, but at least the pain is not as bad as before.

Looking around the platform of course he doesn’t find anything that looks like a tool. But there is the railing that encompasses it, with white and red pipes that just might be able to wiggle free. Might.

He tries the closest railing first, giving it a gentle shake to test the joints. It doesn’t budge.

He should’ve known. But he keeps trying pushing his entire weight into the railing as he throws himself back and forth. The joints barely make a creak in the dense water. Again he tries to throw his weight back and forth, moving his hand from one spot to the next hoping for some sort of weakness.

He finds none.

In the next one, he doesn’t find any either.

Hopelessly he limps from rail to another, forcing his weight to and fro over and over. Only when he has to cross the panel, where the omnitool lies, does he stop.

He wishes she’d just say something.

Anything.

How helpful he is. What a good job he’s done. About how brave it was to work through the remains of Pathos-II.

How useless he is now – being stuck at the bottom of the ocean, as the only ‘real’ person left on Earth.

If he still had eyes, or even a face for that matter, he’d probably be feeling tears crawling down his face. But in this body, in this reality, all he can feel is a tightness in his chest; lungs struggling to inhale the stale air inside the suit. He felt it coming, and doesn’t stop it.

Simon crumbles beside the console, his only hand holds onto the edge as his shin screams in agony – metal and circuits digging into the body that was not his own. It could’ve been anyone here except for him, but why him, why him?

As he spirals into another episode of panic his hand moves over the console, trying to find something to grab and pull himself back up. He can’t sit there and think. He has to get up – he has to just keep moving on. Just like what he’s been doing since he ‘woke up’ in Pathos II. Just what he’s been doing when Catherine left him alone. This is the same as the times before – why didn’t he fall apart then?

His hand finally grabs a hold of something and he shifts to force himself to stand back up – only for the item to remain in his hand and for him to fall back against the platform with a muted grind. Simon releases it to hold onto his shin again as another surge worked its way through him. He’d just wait it out, just like before, yeah.

After a moment of sitting there in pain he takes a look at the item he pulled down from the console.

It was the omnitool.

Another wave of dread blooms through him.

Did he fuck it up? Will it still function? Does this mean he’s going to be trapped here for the remaining time he has any sort of life in the battery crammed into the back of the suit.

He takes another trip down the spiral, staring up into the darkness around him.

And he lets out a scream.


	3. Not the end

A rushing current nudges Simon back to his senses. His heart – someone else’s heart – still pulls tight in his chest. Hyperventilation clouds his sight, his shin still aches, the dent in his other shin prods against flesh; Simon can still feel the omnitool in his hand, the metal platform floor at his back. He’s still alive.

He’s still alive.

He’s still alive.

And Simon only stares into the abyss above.

Lost to his thoughts, stuck in a thousand scenarios, he forces himself up through the pain. He needs to keep going, he tells himself as he feels his way down the couple steps to the main platform. The off-green metal rails, the faded red joints, repeating metal panels, he looks pass them and omni-tool held to his chest – the screen listless. Got to keep going, got to keep going…

Simon shuffles his way to the open airlock into Phi, stopping ever so to reduce the pressure on his broken shin. It’s only a temporary relief, as it comes back after every step. He pushes back the notion that he’s going to die here, as though he hasn’t technically ‘died’ already. It doesn’t matter what happens in the godforsaken abyss, Simon as a person still exists. Living it large in a space ship; he’s bitter; it’s the only thing he tastes.

At the last joint of the railing he stops.

And ‘breathes’ in; he can’t hold the rail forever.

His hand can’t hold on to the door as he falls.

“Sonuva-“ he hisses, curling his damaged leg close. He wishes he could close his eyes and just let the ocean take him. But, as he forces himself onto his good leg, that just can’t happen here. There’s no ‘quick’ way out down here. Not even a conventional – if there was one around Pathos-II – bullet to shoot his brains out. Down here there is only teeth and claws. “This is bullshit,” he whines, leaning against the airlock door with his right leg curled. “The least she could do was figure out what to do after it launches.”

Simon pulls his way into the airlock, barely limping his way in. “Of course she wouldn’t think of that,” he falls back against the side of the airlock, a mimic of a grunt through his audio. “She’s in here,” he pulls up the omni-tool and waves it in front of him, “and I’m stuck out here.” A huff. “Does this even work anymore?” Simon holds it up towards the omnitool panel and waits.

Nothing.

“Guess I’m stuck here then.” A groan, his arm drops to his side.

He at least got _somewhere_. He’s no longer stuck in the pilot seat.

That’s at least something.

Now to find out how to get back into Phi.

To his left is the open outer airlock, to his right the closed inner airlock; how in the hell is he going to reverse it. He could force himself up and pull the outer airlock close and hope it locks, but what if the inner airlock doesn’t move, then what? Wait for rescue within the next million years or something? And that’s being optimistic. But, he’s got to do something or else he’ll be stuck here anyway.

He doesn’t have the strength or the energy to try and dismantle the locking mechanism either – he’d probably cock it up anyway if he tried. Simon doesn’t have a lot of options.

Simon picks through his memory for how the airlock worked – beside the obvious useless part he’s tapping at his knee; the omnitool, it’s more of a sentimental brick at this point. There could always be something he missed, seeing a page somewhere about how it operates… he hopes.

Nothing but the muted and dull sound of metal hitting metal.

Over and over.

He finds himself staring at the outer airlock and into the quiet depths.

WAU’s monsters are still out there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Simon tucks the omni-tool between his chest and busted arm before forcing himself onto his good leg and limps to the open airlock and yanks on the circular bar. Nothing. He tries a longer pull; it barely moves. A groan, the mimic of a deep breath. He swings the omnitool into the darkness of the airlock and forces weight onto his right leg. Audio hisses, he forces the metal of his left limb beneath the circular bar and just pulls.

It’s fucking heavy.

Every so often he moves a foot backwards, resettling his steps.

It takes a while.

A long, long while before the airlock is settled in its closed position.

Simon drops to the ground, staring at the ceiling of the airlock.

“What now…”

Having found the omnitool among the darkness he pulls himself into a partial sitting position, where he starts tapping the omnitool against his knee again. Simon stares at the shut external airlock door; something’s not right … something is missing. He can swear it did more whenever it opened or shut the last several times one of them operated. But to do so would mean he’d have to get up again – his legs ache at the thought.

A sigh sounds from his speakers. He’ll have to get up eventually.

Simon places the omnitool on the floor beside him and stretches out his legs. “Time to access the damage … heh. I’m talking to myself now.” A dry laugh, “that’s great,” a low groan. His right leg doesn’t look as bad as it feels; with the metal from the diving suit bent heavily inward. It’s jagged, it’s scraped, but at least it doesn’t look like the metal has broken. So, that’s at least something. A heavy sigh sounds from his speakers this time before there’s a dull thud – his heavy diving suit body landing against the metal floor panel.

He doesn’t count how long he lies there, listening to the muted creaking of metal and a dull humming from somewhere. There might still be power somewhere; in Phi, or even Tau, or even at the climber.

It could also just be his imagination.

That’s always the possibility at this point, especially with all the stress he has been through; anxiety, pain, panic, exhaustion. Beside the long walks between the stations, he’s never had much time to catch some sort of break from it all. Between the monsters, WAU, and Catherine; it’s been a whirlwind ever since he’s ‘woken’ up.

A part of him wants to get up and just go for the door, get it secured, open the inner airlock and get into Phi. And the other part wants him to stay on the floor. The later wins; a slow sigh.

Instead of listening to the abyss around him he drags his thoughts back to before Pathos-II, before the brain scan, before the accident. The days working at The Grimoire in Toronto… which is now a smear on the surface – a comet hit the earth, fried it, Pathos-II held the only survivors…

…

Simon forces his thoughts somewhere else again, to better days.

He knows he’s going to run out of things to remember, he’s going to have to force himself up again eventually. Then he forces himself to think of happy things again. Over and over he goes through the loop; to get up or remember, to get up or remember, remember, or get up. To keep moving.

There is no way for him to tell how long his mind goes back and forth, or it’s just that he doesn’t bother to keep track. It’s always easier to lay on the floor than to get up on his aching legs.

But he can’t give up – he’s come so far as it is.

This won’t be the end of his story.


	4. Sealed in

If he had a mouth he’d be biting his lip as he forces his good left leg beneath him, leaning against it and the wall as he forces his dented right beneath him. He leaves the omnitool on the floor; he gives it and the dead screen panel a solemn stare. If only it was that easy.

Simon leans against the wall as he works his way back to the external airlock; his speakers hiss at every step made with his right leg. It hurts – metal biting into flesh and bone. It feels worse after every succeeding step, but that’s just how things are now, he guesses, forcing another step down through the damaged shin. Making big steps would offset his balance, steps too small will make the pain linger. He continues to power through it, even as blood pools inside his boot.

“Okay, Simon,” he presses his back against the wall, holding up his right leg as he stops on the door. Thankfully, the airlock seal doesn’t budge or push itself out beneath him. “Think. Think Simon,” he holds his right up against the glass of the diving suit helmet, rubbing at a forgotten nose. “If I remember right,” he partly turns back to the door, his good hand on the top rotating seal. “these have something to do with how it works.” He forces a push on the top rotating seal, then pulls. It barely moves in either directions. So many mechanical gears at work. Simon tests it again, alternating between pushing and pulling. One of the directions have to be right …

Slowly, painfully, oh so painfully, he starts to work the rotating seal into its ‘sealed’ position, struggling with it the entire way. His hand hurts, his wrist hurts, his elbow and shoulder. His shin still aches, but the pain in his arm overshadow it in time.

There’s a loud click when the top seal turns into its locked position, and a louder slam when Simon lets himself fall backward onto the floor, his right hand buried between what remains of his left arm and his body. His audio hisses, sounds garble through pained static. “Christ, did none of them think of a failsafe for this shit?” he curses between auditory hisses, cradling his strained wrist and elbow the best he can with only a third of a left arm. Simon sits there for a while longer, only occasionally looking at the second, lower seal to the airlock – his arm shakes at the thought of forcing the second one into its locked position.

A hand not quite his pops as he works it back to functioning, his thumb still numb as well as his second and third. Or, well, as much as he can with the diving suit’s glove still attached. The stinging in his right leg goes unnoticed, still working on nursing feeling into his only functioning hand. “Would it kill to have some sort of outlined failsafe – I mean – Christ, they should’ve at least seen a power-failure situation.”

He lays his helmet back against the metal along the wall – a small click when they make contact.

The distant echoes surround him again, his eyes – optics – close.

At least with this kind of existence, made of a diving suit, a stolen corpse, black gel, and electronics, Simon doesn’t have to worry about bleeding out. He snorts. “What a positive,” he chuckles to himself, “at the bottom of the ocean, last person alive, no family, no friends. But hey,” a dry laugh, “at least I don’t have to worry about bleeding out.” He resettles his right leg, the one with the dented shin, blood oozes towards the back of the boot. It’s still warm – of course it is, it’s ‘his’ blood and he’s still bleeding.

The roar of another current rolls across Phi and the Omega Space Gun’s chamber, rattling the metal on the other side of the airlock. Simon’s eyes stay closed. If only the ocean could just take him quietly.

That’d be nice.

He forces himself up against the wall and away from the external airlock. He hopes he doesn’t have to actually lock the lower seal.

Simon limps his way to the internal airlock, the one that’d lead him back into Phi. Of course the airlock door there has a set of seals; but he hopes.

Oh god does he hope.

That the seals are easier on his fatigued arm.

They aren’t.

They have the same resistance the external airlock seal gave him, and maybe even a little bit more. Even so, he puts all his weight into undoing the seals. The water inside the airlock? He’ll worry about the water later – hell, if his stupid guess is right then he’ll only have to worry about the bit of water barely flooding Phi.

He pushes.

And pushes.

And pushes the seal into an unlocked position – his hand is screaming.

But he’s so fucking close now.

So close to getting somewhere he knows is safe, somewhere he can find maybe some companionship. Just anything beside the darkness that is the abyss behind him.

Simon slowly eases himself down to kneel beside the airlocks lower seal – nerves still screaming. He can barely hold onto the central strip of metal, his fingers, wrist, and shoulder shaking and shuttering with every grasp and push. He can almost feel that he’s biting his lip, tasting blood as he works through the pain again and again.

He won’t let himself stop now – if he did … he doesn’t know if he could ever try it again.

Simon loses himself in forcing the seal into the unlocked position. There’s nothing else he can do – he just needs to keep moving forward.

The seal clicks into place.

Simon gives himself a short minute to get some feeling back into his hand. But he doesn’t give his hand too long, as he forces himself up with the remains of his left arm and slams his shoulder into the airlock.

It starts to give.

Simon slams his left shoulder into the airlock again, it gives some more.

The pain wasn’t in vain!

He rams his shoulder against the airlock, cradling his arm against his chest with what remains of his left arm.

The airlock gives out, it pops open, the water trapped within the airlock rushes out, and Simon falls onto the floor.

And just as his heavy body lands on corrugated metal, he begins to laugh.

He’s made it back to Phi.


	5. Back in Phi

Curled in a fetal position Simon's audio crackles as he tries to catch his faux-breath; stomach aching, mind still clinging to the corpse that makes his physical form. Lungs breathe in stale rotten air, a bloated stomach forced to feel aches of laughter made by small speakers. The bodily pain, weakened lungs. It's almost as if he was human again, fully. Just almost.

Off to the side of his erratic vision he can barely make out a red light bleeding out of the ceiling, an open hole that makes him freeze for a second. It's not a monster, its only wires. Uncurling from the corrugated floor he makes out more of the red emergency lights, and the faint lighting given off by the floor lights. The emotional coil in his deceased chest tightens - he could _almost_ cry.

He's safe. Actually safe.

There is still the creaks of the turbulent currents on the metal hull, the distant hum by the emergency power generator. His safety is still of little comfort.

But he's still alive. And he's still alone. At the bottom of the ocean.

His one hand pats around the floor for his sentimental brick - the omnitool - and tries his best to not use his busted leg as he forces himself over to and against the open airlock door. It's not as successful as he'd hope, but - hey - at least he has his sentimental brick called 'Catherine'.

He barely forces out a chuckle at his own stupid joke.

"Catherine, how smart of an idea was that?" Simon creaks, his electronics still recovering from his earlier fit.

"Oh, _very_ smart," he tries to mimic Catherine's snarky tone, "how long did it take to think it up?" Simon bobs the omnitool up and down in front of him - the dark screen facing him.

"Too long," his audio creaks, his hand and the omnitool fall to the floor. A crumbled sigh. Optics close.

Now what?

A part of Phi rattles as one of WAU's proxies rams against the hull. Simon remains still, waiting for another slam or a break in the hull. For _something_ to go wrong - but it never does. And the partial silence surrounds him again.

Sitting there, breathing in nothing.

Simon continues to wait with eyes closed - for the next thing to go wrong.

But nothing ever comes to go wrong.

He needs to get up and keep moving to ... somewhere. Maybe with the WAU poisoned he can make his way back to the climber, maybe get back to the surface walking back the way he came. Farfetched of an idea it seems ...

It's something.

With his good leg Simon forces himself up against the airlock hatch door, holding the omnitool against his chest with his useless stub. There is the usual sting of metal and bone biting into flesh, a stale sticking in his right boot by the blood stuck inside. As much as the feeling makes his rotting stomach turn, the nausea doesn't hit him.

But it does cause every step to sound like they're by one of WAU's proxies - a rattling of metal and organic matter, held together by structure gel. Simon has to constantly remind himself he's alone as he hops to one of the control room's rolling chairs, dragging it across the corrugated floor. In a moment of respite he turns the chair around and falls back into it.

He lands on it hard; the wheels catch against the floor's uneven surface and rotates off to the side into a fall. Simon pivots himself out of the chair - and onto his bad leg. The omnitool falls to the ground with a clatter.

He hisses, leaning against the console the chair sat beside. "Fuck, fuck, aaah," more bleeding - how much has he bled out by now? "Eeeah," his audio mimics a pained exhale, his vision flickers and distorts. "Come on, not again," He holds his leg in his one hand, his stub steadying him against the console panel.

"This - I need to fix it," Simon whimpers, the sound of pained breath intertwined with his loose comment.

Apart from the airlock hatch off to his left there was still two ways he could go now; from where he's standing now he can't see anything in the control room that could help him.

He'll just have to keep moving.

The mimicry of a long inhale plays through his speakers, followed by a shaky exhale following the equally shaky motions of Simon's non-body. Dead lungs filling and exhaling the same stale breaths, a rattle through the metal exterior, a mix of slow breathing mixed with faux swallows. He feels it in his stolen bones, his pilfered flesh, in the gel that holds him together and his mechanical head.

"Stop thinking about it, just stop, Simon." He doesn't catch it playing through his speakers.

For a little while longer, as long as he can manage, he repeats the slow false inhales and exhales. Is it to remain calm, to try to return to being normal for as long as he can manage? Simon's not even sure, staring at the farthest entry way from him. He can't make out the signage from across the room - the occasional static and unfocused makes it hard to read. It could not have been that long ago since he's been here, right? So why, he thinks to himself, does he have a hard time remembering what the hell it is?

He remembers a ladder but not where. Carefully descending it one rung at a time with one hand and a stump before finding Catherine's human corpse. It's still down there, her corpse. Almost the same as the sentimental brick laying at his feet.

Simon shakes away those thoughts.

From where he sits against the console he can see the other opening actually goes off somewhere - he can see a part of the hallway split off. Maybe he can find something there to repair his leg.

That's if he moves.

Carefully he lowers himself down into a squat with his right leg edging along the floor as carefully as he can manage in the bulky diving suit. He can't just leave the omnitool behind; a part of him doesn't allow him to go on without it. Grabbing it and tucking it between his chest and the remains of his left arm is the easy part - and he could consider standing back up to be as easy if he didn't move his right leg too much and cause another wave of pain to crawl through his system. He bites at a phantom lip even as his speakers let out a hiss.

This fucking sucks.


	6. Keep moving

As he waits for the next blossom of agony to dissipate, Simon considers his options.

He needs to fix his leg; if he doesn’t he’ll be a sitting duck for whatever of WAU’s creatures are left on the way back. If he does go back, he can’t just run from them like before – especially if he can’t find something to mend the mangled leg of his. He’s going to have to fight his way back to TAU, his way back to the climber if he can manage. He still has one hand – he still has the chance to fight back; but for how long? Then there’s also the omnitool. If he’s using one hand to defend himself and it gets rough, how will he keep hold of it?

Another burst of pain brings him back; speakers blowing a hard hiss.

“Come on,” he forces out, leaning back against the control panel. Either the pain is going to stop, or he’ll fight through it … the later more likely; but still he waits out some of it. Of course he isn’t sure exactly how long he does wait it out, standing still and alone, in silence. If only there was a clock or something, then he’d know how long he’s been sitting on his ass. It’s always helped him before.

A staggered swallow.

He tests weight onto his mangled leg. A loud huff rushes through his speakers as he steps, the fluids shifting inside the boot. Just as before his stomach knots, nothing coming from it – except for the queasy feeling that sinks deep into his false throat. “Fuck,” he grunts, shifting back onto his better left leg. Like it or not, he’s going to have to use the busted leg.

“Damnit,” his speakers barely whisper, prepping for another attempt onto his bad leg. The results come out just the same; sharp pain, a sickening feeling in his pilfered gut, the slopping of viscous fluids – he pulls back to try again. He waits, and tries again. Hold, lift, try, then tries again. And again.

And again.

Simon isn’t sure how many times he repeats, listening to the rumbles of the turbulent waters outside PHI’s hull and the occasionally shifting thumps.

…

If only there was someone to talk to.

“Catherine, can you tell me a story?” There’s a crackle in his speaker’s audio.

Of course, nothing responds - nothing from the dead omnitool pressed against his battered metal chest. He receives a false playback from earlier conversations, bits and pieces of insults, beratements, honesty. Nothing new, nothing spoken. Simon presses the omnitool closer, his free hand still holding his weight against the control panel. If he’s not moving forward, going somewhere, nothing is going to change – until his batteries eventually run out. Once more he forces weight onto his busted leg, trying his best to stand freely on the sharp stabbing of metal and broken bone. It’s the usual but – hey – he’s gotten more used to the pain now! Feeling out the ways he can move with the shattered remains.

A part of him remains unsatisfied – he needs to keep moving

Simon struggles to stand with his right, still heavily relying on the console for support. A noisy limp, a slow dragging of metal grinding metal. A hiss blows through his speakers as he steps wrong, fingers digging at the panel’s edge. And waits, pain surging. 

He’s gotten this far; he can’t stop now – he’s gotten so far. He’s gotten so far.

His hand presses against the wall as he takes his next series of steps. Faux breath intakes as the right takes another step, slogging his way over to the console with the omnitool panel. That’s not where he is going – the panel is dead.

Keep moving, Simon. You need to keep moving.

A part of him repeats; the only pressure keeping him sane in this metal hell.

He limps past the second console, leaning on it for a maybe momentary breather before continuing past the seal beside it. What’s behind it? He doesn’t want to find out – crosses his mind as he limps against it, shifting a little less on his right. “Well, as they always said … practice makes perfect,” a bitter snort follows.

He rounds the massive ventilation duct on his way to the doorway labeled ‘service area’. They’re silent, the air probably tastes stale … and rotten. A pause, Simon looking to the other route out of PHI he knows – the loading dock.

Her body is still down there…

Catherine’s last moments play over his thoughts as he limps into the service area hallway. The supports make it easier for him to keep moving, keep slogging on as his right foot loudly rings against the grate floor. He remains on the right as he approaches the junction to the dive room and the service area – where he wedges himself between two of the crescent support beams. Loud, anxious gasp stammer out of the speakers, the sound scraping against his audio receivers.

Got to keep moving. Need to keep moving. Must keep moving!

A part of him berates him for resting. He could be a little bit closer to getting free, but no, he had to take a break to breathe. To breathe! He doesn’t have lungs anymore; he doesn’t need to breathe. All he’s doing is fooling himself.

“Shut up,” Simon whimpers into the darkness, pressing against the wall and then the support. “I can only do so much,” Speaking to himself again; he releases a bitter sigh. A feeling like tears welt in his psyche; a hand twisting in his gut. More personal beratement boils up through his gut. He was never good enough. Never got where he wanted. Could’ve done more, could’ve done better.

Simon presses forward, pushing himself to stand freely on his damaged leg – the pain is intense. But it stops the other part of him that won’t stop talking. “T-there we go,” he gasps, hand pressing against his hip as he forces another step. “That-that’s more like it,” he snorts. “can’t fucking think like that.”

He passes the floor one power relay. The room illuminated with the same ill red.

Taunting blue greets him at the end of the hallway, drips of WAU infused structure gel drips from the ceiling from a shriveled mass laid just above the ceiling’s mesh. The poison is working.

Simon limps his way around the room, hoping to find something still left behind he could use. But, still, he remains himself he’s not human anymore and any of the typical items are going to be long gone. Something to remain repeated as he shoves an empty barrel of kerosene away from one of the shelving units to get to a closed unit. A series of frustrated prying consumes his time, pulling off lids with only one usable arm. Nothing he finds immediately useful - spare parts for the circuitry mostly. But in a toolbox near the back of the room, on the bottom shelf, he finds some things that might be useful to him; a broken circular saw blade, a thin spool of solder, a small portable welder, two pairs of cutters, a slightly rusted hammer.

Things that can fix his leg a bit at least, how much he isn’t sure of.

He shovels the bits and pieces into a bag he found on the top of one of the shelves, careless with how he tosses everything in. The items clang against one another as Simon hoists the bag over his shoulder. Mildly satisfied with what he finds, Simon limps into the bathroom where he’s greeted by the pulsating, sickly looking WAU node, the nanite tentacles drooping, the surface flaking.

He still has so much left to go…

With a grunt he drops himself on the floor across from the active WAU node; the bag clangs as it strikes the floor, the tools shift. Simon spreads his leg out in front of him, his fingers touch the damage. Speakers hiss as he presses against the rim of the dent, tracing the outside and then to the joint of the diving suit – where the material is not made of metal. “I could open it up here,” he coils a finger against the edge of the shin plate, “then I can get a better look at the damage.” He lets the omnitool drop to the floor as he continues to explore the knee joint.

“If I could get this fixed, I can get out of this shithole a little faster,” Simon chuckles, pulling the bag in front of him. His left struggles to hold the bag still as Simon unzips it. “I just need,” he grumbles, his bulky hand having trouble reaching far enough to remove the hammer from a tangle of tubes, “this fucking thing.” A growl peaks in his speakers as he forces the hammer free. “There we fucking go.” Simon laughs.

In the distance, he swears there is screaming.

In great anticipation, he wedges the hammer’s hooked end beneath the edge of the metal – then begins to pull and push, rocking against the metal and the mesh. Someone’s telling him no. He’s gone this far, he can’t stop now.

The hammer slips from its place, swinging outwards before Simon drives it in again. Pain surges; he doesn’t care.

He can fix this.

Again, the hammer slips out, and again Simon drives it back in, prying the dense fabric from the joint. The kneecap is the first sign of progress, just as he dives the hammer’s hook into the joint. There is a crack; it’s the metal that cracked, he swears by it. Even as sharp pain shoots through into his pilfered heart and empty lungs, he keeps going.

Striking the joint with the hammer’s hook.

The voice to stop gets louder, almost as audible to his ill speakers as the wet smacking of metal digging into flesh.

Stop, the voice tells him. You’re making it worse.

Simon shakes his head, breath caught in his stale chest. “I almost got it,” he laughs.

Simon, stop it now!

It’s not Catherine; Catherine might as well be dead. A muse he dwells on as he pries another shard of metal from his leg. He stares at the omnitool on the floor. She never cared for him.

A loud snap.

His speakers are mute as the hammer hits the floor, gripping what’s left of the kneepad as he falls to his side. A phantom mouth is open, silent screaming, eyes closed. Fluid drips through his fingers as he lies there, consumed in pain.


	7. Numb Static

Metal digits clutch at the mangled muscles pulled from his knee, bone shards sliding between fingers as they glide through the battered mess. Slick with sprayed blood and oozing structure gel, Simon’s fingers fail to grip the torn metals and remnant bones. Bone fragments coated in gore settle on the floor beside his knee, leg out stretched and limp. His circuits surge as his senses struggle to return, his mind a fragmented mess while his lone hand tries to hold his knee in one piece. Senseless prying fights against nervous jerks, cortex alight in bleeding agony.

Uneven static surges through his speakers, resounding off broken porcelain and tile. A jumbled stammer scratches out, broken between coarse cries and curling screams. The remnants of his left arm motion as though there was still a palm, a phantom grasping at the underside of the pain as his right grabs the radiating pain at his knee. Nothing is working.

Why isn’t his leg working?

Why isn’t it working?!

The limb painfully flops as his right hand moves down below the joint, pulling it closer into his coiled chest. Among the erratic signals passing through his circuitry his flashlight refuses to stay on, flickering with every falsified breath. His throat clams up as his mind signals holding breath, muscles moving accordingly in its stale housing. The mimic of shallow breath forces it open, speakers repeating out harsh swallows.

False feelings of clenched teeth, squinting eyes, chapped lips and wind-swept throat. Simon sinks into the comforting illusion. If only he was human… if only he was human.

If only he was human, he would be dead.

Reality continues to hammer away at his remaining senses; his single hand grasp knuckle deep into tattered gore, his right leg barely moving below the torn knee. The ever lingering WAU proxy slams itself against the hull close to the bathroom, barely rasping against it with its vanishing strength. The WAU port, once directly across from Simon, flickers in its own dying light.

Simon, exhausted, lets unconsciousness take him once more; falling back into darkness.

. . .

Within his head comes a short series of beeps, and a resounding click.

. . .

A shift to remove his good leg out from under his ruined knee causes another surge of pain to rip through him; a hiss rushes through his speakers, “fuck.” A second attempt forces a sharp screech from those same speakers, tearing into his mic before his electronics intervene. There’s no attempt to move after that – lying still, barely breathing. Breathing only to feel a bit human as his electronic cortex tries to coax out deep breaths.

“It’s no use,” his speaker creaks; a mimic of a dried throat and tight chest. “I’m going to die right here. Because of another stupid fucking mistake.” His lone fist hits tile once, then twice more. The tile shatters under the enhanced strength. “Stupid, fucking idiot.” Winding up another punch twists his center and his legs; another wave of pain shoots up and forces him down.

Another creak winds its way through his speakers, through the false clamping of teeth.

A clenched fist slams on the broken tile.

“Fucking stupid. Idiot Simon.” Fist on tile. Fist on tile.

Simon lays there, murmuring to himself in self-deprecation until his energy to complain wanes and returns to unconsciousness.

Again.

. . .

A short series of beeps call within his head. Another click.

. . .

It’s a while longer before his senses return.

He moves nothing more than his one hand, staring at the back long enough to memorize the nicks and scrapes on the plating in the slowly pulsating light of the WAU node. Simon’s ‘breathing’ is slow; focusing out the situation to appease his lingering sanity. It’s so real.

So depressingly real.

His fist clenches – his chest tightens.

A mimic of a sigh resonates from his speaker.

Simon feels around the darkness beside him for the omnitool, his sentimental brick. It’s not far from where he lays, having skid along the floor from his earlier bout of mania. But, he doesn’t pull it close. Rather he just holds it in place, memories playing of the last conversation.

‘You lied. And I believed in you, I trusted you. You said we’re getting on the fucking ARK!’

If only he had listened to her better…

‘We are on the ARK, you idiot! I didn’t lie!’ He should’ve listened better. ‘I can’t be responsible for your goddamn ignorance, you fucki-.’ Simon picks up the omnitool and holds it close.

“I’m sorry, Catherine.”

A choked sigh as he shoves the omnitool beneath his left limb. Slowly Simon starts to push himself back up, keeping his sight away from the busted joint. He doesn’t try to roll himself straight into a sitting position just yet; too well aware of the pain that coursed through him before. But, to keep going, he’s going to have to.

Of course, the first attempt to roll himself over is met with immense pain; but it’s not a blazing heat as before, but a numb static set burrowed into the joint and as far down he can feel – a log of fuzz aching barely in his line of sight. Carefully, slowly, he drags the senseless limb off his good leg, hissing ‘ow’ or similar others every so often. Hisses and false blows, rolling the near immobile lump of muscle and metal takes time. And he has all the time in the world.

And eventually he does return to how he sat before his recent bout of mania, the bag of instruments settled far out of his reach, the hammer just beside him. He doesn’t move for either, letting his heavy head fall back against the wall with an angry ‘clunk’. Optics closed, the façade of breathing slow, listening to the aches of the derelict station as a current roars pass the upper level. The creaks. The groans. The barely audible whining playing in the back of Simon’s ailed psyche.

‘Move’, he taps the back of his head against the wall. Clunk. ’Move,’ a voice repeats. Clunk.

“Just stop,” he sighs. “Just let me rest,” Simon pleads to nothing.

It continues to nip in the back of his mind; not doing enough, not doing anything right. This and that, all the in-betweens. A huff sounds through his speakers. His right hand finds the grip of the hammer and holds it across his lap, head still back as he battles the bombarding thoughts. Not doing enough. A failure.

Simon whacks his side with the blunt of the hammer, just enough to momentarily cause some discomfort, enough to disperse some of the thoughts; not enough to remove them entirely. For confirmation, he taps his side again, a tad harder and winces from the minor discomfort – a grain of static to the state his leg lies in. Anxious to keep moving, Simon turns on his headlamp, looking down at the remains of his knee. Blood soaks the material in splotches and echoed sprays. Metal is twisted and bent, carbon busted and shattered. Bands of structure gel contorts through the remnants of the exposed muscles, leaving the bone fragments scattered across the floor.

He feels nothing but the static, watching as the gel ungulates along the busted material, across decrepit flesh and bone. Whatever disgust, hatred, frustration and anxiety that sat in Simon’s chest before is gone for now, withered away by recovering exhaustion. Given time he’d probably make more mistakes, tear up his knee further and just make it worse.

He tosses the hammer at the WAU node.

With his one good arm Simon grabs the edge of the sink, forcing himself up with his good limbs. His right leg bursts into pain as his left wiggles beneath the senseless limb. Hisses blow though his speakers at every physical lurch. There’s a momentary pause when his side is parallel to the wall, his left leg knelt, his right contorted in front of him. Simon gives himself until the count of 30; at the end he clenches nonresistant teeth, pushing himself up against the wall until he’s properly standing.

“A bit at a time,” his speakers chuckle, shuffling as the lower right limp mass rolls against the wall.

Simon gives himself another series of counting until he limps forward, grabbing the open bag and throwing it into the sink to zip it up. He tucks the omnitool into the front pouch, and throws the bag over his shoulder.

He begins to count.

One, two, three.

Simon rolls his hip and throws himself forward, catching himself on the second sink. His left leg follows.

One, two, three.

He limps forward again. Repeating again, and again, he slowly makes his way out of the bathroom.

Back down the ribbed hallway he limps, making his way back into the control room – a distant stare at the airlock sat on the far end of the hallway he forced himself down. Potentially, he could go out that way but …

There hasn’t been any pounding against the hull in a long, long time. WAU’s proxy might still be out there, ready to tear him to shreds. Or it could be dead, writhing on the ocean floor. A part of him, the part with still some lingering sense, forces him towards the ladder down to the Loading dock; he’s not going to risk it.

Simon takes his time to approach the ladder, leaning his tired weight on the wall as he moves. The numbness in his limp limb screams into his exhausted nerves and stressed circuits – fraying his focus, disrupting his concentration. Anxiety bites back into him, chewing at his frail core.

Silence…

He could fuck it all up again.

Going down the ladder with a missing hand wasn’t an issue before but … a stale leg?

Mock imagery of a stumble and fall flip through his psyche. A leg caught among the rungs, his bad leg snapping in two as he falls against the metal ribs. Where he’d get caught, stuck until he inevitably falls. The Omnitool snapping in two.

His pilfered throat swallows stale air and he shuffles forward – a mimicry of breath.

Slowly Simon works his way down to the floor, ‘biting’ back the pain as waves of painful static burns through his nerves as he lowers himself beside the hole – his good, functioning, leg dangles beside the ladder. He takes a rest at the rim of the ladder, staring down the descent he’ll have to make downwards. The safe tunnel to TAU, his way out to the climber, somewhere, anywhere but here.

And her corpse is down there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 8, 2017 - Reworked final couple lines to sound better.


	8. Another Descent

Simon tucks his scrapped forearm around the lopping top of the ladder, pulling himself tight against the yellow-painted metal before his hand grabs onto the other side – palming at the surface to find the best grip. A resurface of anxiety squeezes again in his empty chest, thinking of what can happen when he begins the descent. Can he hold on well enough? Will he fall? A web of ifs and maybes spin through his cortex, still feeling at the metal, rocking and shifting his weight as he looks down the descent.

“All or nothing,” he half laughs to himself.

Then he pulls on the ladder with all his strength, dragging his weary body over and into the ladder.

His limp leg slams into the ladder’s rungs, the collision resounding and sparking another bloom of pain through his spine. Simon holds on tight to the ladder as the pain slowly wanes, fixing his good leg onto the first rung it can reach.

Faux heaving breath tears through his empty lungs; a mental response, he has to tell himself, of panic.

Simon coils against the ladder as he waits for the pain and panic to inevitably subside – he’s stable, he’s still.

He’s okay.

For now.

Simon lets the erratic stammering breaths continue for a short while longer, slowly forcing his pilfered flesh to slow its useless inhales and unneeded exhales. As before it takes time for his system to finally calm down; though he wishes it was sooner. He just wants to keep going, get on with the bullshit already. Get out of PHI, into TAU, back to the climber.

And yet, he knows it’s not reasonable to be there now in his physical state; a busted leg, a missing hand, an existential weight in a heart that isn’t his own. He’s not even sure if the diving suit will keep his remaining flesh safe after … his latest bout of mania. The joint aches as he thinks on it.

He’s shaking as he slowly unwinds his hand-less forearm from the ladder, sliding the inner joint down the yellow metal one rung before snapping it closed. The makeshift grip holds on tight as he moves his hand down to the rung beneath it. Simon takes a moment, a slow deep breath, holds his chest close to the ladder, and slips his good foot out of the rung.

His body jolts as his foot leaves, returning it as another panic attack threatens to choke him again.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” he whispers to himself, his audio squeaking.

He repeats into his next attempt.

This time he’s able to step down onto the next rung, his limp leg bouncing against the metal.

A short pause, a slow breath.

A sharp scrape on metal, tight grasping on metal with a gloved palm.

A quick kick out then in – followed by a light tapping

A pause, and again.

The noises continue as he carefully makes his descent. A lingering anxiety fog of ifs and maybes is forced away as he focuses on the repetitive motions. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” repeats through his speakers, fading into mere background noise. It only barely ceases when his good leg lands on the floor panel at the bottom of the ladder – fading as decrepit lungs heave a breath he never held; the mimic of a sigh.

One step closer to being out of PHI, to getting to the climber.

And the pessimistic part of Simon reminds him it’s only one of thousands.

Simon doesn’t wait for the reignited anxiety to crawl through him again, grabbing at the metal ribbing across behind the ladder.

He slowly makes his way around the inner walls of the ladder’s small room, the emergency light still active, still illuminating the loading dock floor panels with their melancholy red. Simon shakes his head, leaning against the side of the open entryway. Leaned against it with his mangled left, rubbing the outer shell of the diving suit’s head. A faux rubbing of hand to temple – he can just _barely_ feel a hand on his non-existent nose.

The false senses are the only thing keeping him together.

Simon limps his way around the extended support ribbing between the access stairs and the loading platform, stopping short of entering. The lights occasionally flicker in sets, his sight drifting pass the floodlights illuminating the short hallway and down to the end of the hall where a pair of stale red trails rest.

A coil in his long dead heart twists; he says nothing.

But his mind is screaming; the weight of the bag on his back.

A portion of a circular saw, a spool of solder and a portable welder, the two cutters … he left the hammer up in the bathroom. What was he exactly planning to do? Replace his bad leg with one from her corpse?

The tightening in his throat is back; he swallows it down.

Simon limps forward into the hallway.

His left hip leans heavily against the guide rail, his right holding him close to the beam since his left can’t keep him steady much with its mutilated end. The metal panels beneath him rattle with each awkward hop, his limp right leg rolling on his left, the toe of the boot grinding against the corrugated floor panels.

The off-rhythm sounds of his movements and the agonizingly slow pace gives him too much time to think – to dwell on what he might do, and that this is Catherine’s _corpse_ he’s thinking about. Not a machine, not a personality etched into a machine, but an actual human being. And the tools in his bag, made to mend metal and circuits, to cut apart flesh.

It … snags at a part of the whole mentality he collected at PATHOS-II.

A mind saved, a body left behind. The technicality of the same person experiencing different things. With how long Catherine went between the copy in the front pocket and the body laid out on the floor; she was Catherine, but how _different_ was she?

Simon stares at the corpse as he nears the end of the guide-rail, nearly falling when he tries to step out with his ruined right. He catches himself, but it gave a jumpstart to put some feeling into his decrepit heart. “Idiot,” he curses, reaching for the track-rail in the center of the hallway. Its barely too far away.

He stops and shifts where his good leg stands, pressing the rotting end of his left down for support as he tries again. This time, he succeeds; but barely, his limp leg skipping out from beneath him and throwing him off balance for a brief moment. Simon stands still, waiting for the sudden spike in his breathing to calm down before he continues, staring at Catherine’s corpse.

“I’m so sorry, Catherine,” he briefly whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged!


	9. Bite into skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to continue! I hope to continue working on finishing ASWA through the year. ' w'
> 
> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon palms at the metal rail, his thick diving suit fingers press and clasp across the underside of the beam in careful motions; just as carefully his good leg can shuffle below him and his bad legs swings as a macabre pendulum of twisted metal and ill structure gel. Deep pin-pricks of cyan light barely illuminates the soured gel that cradles his fragmented knee, barely a tint visible on the dim metal of the circular struts. He’s just as cautious as he works his way to the side near the lone corpse, keeping his eyes on his hands and his functional leg.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it; his mind screams.

A hop from the center of the crescent hallway to the metal struts resound in a series of grinding metal scratches; his hand misses the initial grasp on the furthest metal strut and his shoulder falls between the gap, scratching his back with the other. The limp leg crashes against the metal wall – a sharp jab erupts from his stolen flesh. His auditory system holds back a shout in a faux bite-back, a grunted hiss.

Simon’s thick limb crawls between body and wall, reaching at the outer edge of the hallway strut as his good leg struggles to hold him steady. His shoulder and side press against the wall and strut, shrugging himself out of the self-made pin. “There we fucking go,” he huffs, edging himself around the red metal onto orange. He forces himself into a lean, his shoulder scratching and bumping across the metal.

He hobbles around the brightly painted strut, forcing himself to look away from the corpse laid out on the loading bay floor. The good leg shuffles over Catherine’s blood, long dried out. Metal panels of his diving suit scrapes as he guides himself along the strut, his shoulder grinding as he tries to bury the blackbox playback resounding in the back of his electric mind. The conversation, the struggle, the desperation for humanity’s last chance and then … silence, and her coworker’s regrets. It wasn’t supposed to end like that… they were going to launch it and – then what would they do? If it went as planned, would Catherine end up like those in TAU? Starved and waiting for supplies that would never come from top-side – would she rather end up like Sarah, stuck on life supply until some fuck came by and pulled the plug for them?

Or… would she…

When he comes out of the thought he’s staring at the empty energypal unit, staring down at the ‘s3 connection’ panel with his good hand hanging onto the top. Simon leans against it, the glass of his diving suit resting against the ‘s3 connection’ label, staring over the etched engraving on the illuminated red metal. He stares… and stares… looking over the wear of the once heavily used machine; when it had more use.

Behind him he can hear the flies.

Simon wonders, how often did they use the Omega Space Gun; how many times has it launched from the abyss.

The buzzing burrows at his fragile thoughts, as though they’re the only sound in the emptiness of the loading dock. Even though there’s a different buzz from the barely working lighting at the side of the energypal. He can feel one land on the grotesque remains of his arm, tiny feet on pilfered skin.

He just doesn’t want to turn around.

But she’s here, waiting. Her corpse is waiting for him to fucking turn around.

A bite against a phantom lip; a nonexistent bubbling formed within his stolen chest.

If he wants to keep going – he /needs/ to do this.

The weight on his back is heave; the cutters, the broken circular saw, the portable welder he wasn’t even sure worked.

“Stupid, stupid Simon,” he muses, rolling the glass front of his helmet on the energypal.” Should’ve fucking checked it; Catherine would’ve said something.” But Catherine isn’t there to berate him for his lack of foresight; but her corpse is there, lying dead and cold. He forces in a dry inhale of recycled gasses before forcing himself to turn around.

Her body isn’t far from where he stands, shuffling the backpack from his shoulders and lets it drop with a metallic clang. The fracture of circular saw rings, ruffling as he’s forced to think exactly /how/ he’s going to do this. He knows he needs a new hand, he’s certain whatever he can manage from Catherine’s corpse will be better than the stump he has now. He could protect himself, actively fend for himself without the door opener taking up one of his hands. Then there’s also the status of his knee – the one he tore out of mania, violent expression of his frustration – he can’t get anywhere like that.

And drops himself to the floor, wincing as his limp leg bounces with a metallic creak.

He claws through the sack, digging out the tools made to repair and mend.

And here is us using them to rend.

Simon can’t help but laugh, “you know, Catherine? You were right, I am an idiot. Instead of just giving up to this hell I’m still here. Alone. With nothing but you’re quiet ass at my side.” He moves himself closer to her prone corpse; her legs are closest to him, but he figures he’ll need two hands to replace the busted kneecap – that and the bite in his arm is /clean/. He can at least thank WAU for tearing his hand off cleanly.

The thought makes him grimace, looking at the hanging muscle that ends his left arm half way up the forearm. Too far down to just take Catherine’s forearm, too far up to just take her hand. Simon needs it straight from a joint – cutting through the metal would just take too long.

And he has all the time in the world, as long as his battery doesn’t run out.

So, he grabs the sawblade and presses it at the inner portion of his left elbow joint – where the suit separates into bicep and forearm. If he’s to get a new arm, he’ll need to cut off the old one.

Simon digs the blade against the inner portion, pressing the jagged edge along the tubed lining as he cuts. It’s the easiest part, he considers, easily cutting through it and letting the battered cuff slip over his limb – or more precisely Raleigh Herber’s limb. Once it drops he can see the structure gel that congealed under the power suit’s pressurized armor. It pulsates blue from sickly black veins, twitching as he presses the piece of sawblade against the veins of his arms, over a thick structure gel vein that withdraws as metal presses against skin.

Simon draws a breath, and pushes the blade into skin and muscle.

It burns as he saws through muscle and veins, down against bone he tries to maneuver around as he works the chunk from his arm. The gel tries to connect himself back together, but each time he cuts the strands – probably should’ve freed Catherine’s first.

But fuck it, he’s already at it now.

Throughout it he holds back with false clenching teeth, his good leg kicking at the floor as the pain hammers through his senses and biting at senseless tongue. He has to push himself to continue, cutting through thick tendons until it finally falls to the floor with a sickly slap. He drops the blade, thick fingers pressing against the stagnant blood flow made ichor black. When he pulls his hand away its all he can see – black, structure gel black.

He’s shaking, composure shaken as he tries to work his fingers back around the piece of diamond edged sawblade. Kneeling over Catherine’s corpse, he begins to slice, forcing himself to concentrate on the back and forth motion to tear through the elbow joint. Of course, it’s the easiest part to work off, pulling it free from a stiff limb – he hopes he didn’t break any fingers. Then it’s onto cutting through Catherine’s elbow, carefully cutting the flesh down to the joint as carefully as he can while still feeling his own mangled elbow dripping fluid.

“Thanks, Catherine, this really helps,” he says in a creaking voice as he pulls the severed limb close, holding it joint to joint with his own. Simon watches as structure gel latches to the stiff muscles, swarming up the new flesh in a frenzy that him whimper in resurging pain. He holds it close to his chest, curling as best he can around it as he stares at the ceiling – waiting for the pain to subside.

It hammers in waves through his nerves, reinvigorated structure gel writhing for the fresh connection between his severed joint and the transplanted stiff limb. Nerves are forcefully connected as his breathing shutters, feeling as pins prickle through his flesh as the sickening gel assimilates Catherine’s arm into his series of fucked up realities.

He’s a mind trapped in a machine, a machine that’s nothing more than a cortex with eyes and speakers that allow him to see and hear. Lungs express dissatisfaction as they exhale the stale air he breathed in countless times, a guttural reaction in the body he stolen from Raleigh Herber after her head exploded. He’s a stolen corpse, a severed limb, a power suit, and a mechanical brain – that lost a fucking coin toss to live it up on a satellite that staring down at the pitiful earth.

And he sighs, biting back the pain with a twisted nonexistent tongue.

“Fuck, this hurts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YA'LL THINK I FORGOT AND ABSCONDED? I'M BACK NOW.
> 
> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-


	10. Biting despair

Simon hisses as stale blood and structure gel surge through the crackling limb, veins pumping liquid black as necrosis fingers angrily curl to life. Flesh pink is separated by dull blued skin by a jagged coating of structure gel, firmly keeping the new limb attached to the stump he carved from his stolen body. He stares at the made ugly limb, optics darting from flexing deep blue fingers to the lump of flesh that belonged to Raleigh Herber – the woman he stole his body from. She wasn’t using it, right? She was dead after all.

It didn’t make him feel any less disgusted.

He stole the body of Imogen Reed – he didn’t mean to, it had just happened. He went in to get a brain scan, and there he was; in a body that wasn’t rightfully his. She died, and he stole it. It wasn’t his. It never was his.

Looking back to the dead limb brought to life, he could almost barf.

But all he can feel is the gurgling inside the diving suit’s helmet – false breaths gargling what ever fluids leak from the stump Raleigh’s head once occupied. A part of him rationalizes the desecration as survival – it was the only way to check on Catherine’s project, the ARK, how far her… human body went. He stares at the arm he might call his own. But it’s Catherine’s. He stole the arm from Catherine. Human Catherine. The Catherine not stuck in the useless door opener like some sort of pet rock.

And he still needs to get rid of his fucking busted knee. He can’t walk around like this, limping, a sitting duck for whatever WAU creature that’s left after his blood – or would it be the structure gel working as blood? – poisoned it. He hasn’t heard the bashing thumps for a while, the grotesque WAU serpent that chased him in the darkest corners of the Abyss.

With a grimace he tugs the power suit glove he torn off Catherine’s corpse onto her arm again – its still her arm, just attached to his body. Wouldn’t that make it his arm now?

Probably.

With the newfound limb, with two hands instead of one, he crawls over Catherine’s corpse. He pulls the bag behind him as he scoots closer to Catherine’s prone right side. He still needs a leg – from the knee down. Simon could just take out his leg first, do the same thing as with his elbow.

But after the last attempt he doesn’t want to risk his already taut nerves.

And he has to laugh – out of stress and irony of it all.

After Ashley’s death, his brain trauma, the ever-lingering thought of dying at a young age because one fucking car crash. Always worrying about when he’ll hemorrhage to death.

Here he was, a tightly wound ball of stress about to cut into someone he considered a friend, for the second time. He could never harm anyone, always holding it in, all too aware of the repercussions but apprehensive to speak out. It keeps piling on him; always running from conglomerates of flesh and metal, the horrid screeching of angry speakers as a dead heart thumps in his chest.

He holds up the portable welder, and pulls is trigger.

Nothing. The batteries have long run dead.

Exasperated he throws it into the rocket bay.

“Just my fucking luck,” Simon grumbles, fingering the circular saw as his hand lies over his thigh. There’s still the cutters. More tuned for wires and small bits of machinery. With a sigh, he looks to Catherine’s body, and looks down at his ill bent leg made numb from his frantic thrashing on the platform and his own brutal eccentric mania.

The kneepad bone is openly exposed, barely held in place by strands of writing structure gel as it tries to keep everything together. Its innate usage is the only thing keeping the thing together. Brushed muscle barely hides behind the black undulating mass. A leg made uselessly still attached.

Simon pulls himself close to Catherine’s body, wedging himself against it and presses the saw edge in the crook of the power suit’s thigh joint.

Ever so carefully, he cuts into the secure tubing, jamming the fracture of circular saw into the cervices as he forces the stiff limb up over his shoulder to keep cutting, to free the suit part from Catherine’s corpse so he can get to what makes a knot ball in his ill-fated gut again. To cut off Catherine’s limb then to cut off his own.

His damaged knee surges with sympathetic pain, nerves remembering the brutality as the hammer struck against muscle and bone, tearing up tendons in a haphazard attempt to remove it in the bathroom upstairs. It would’ve been nice to keep that hammer, at least as a weapon to use for later.

As he cuts into the suit junction he goes back over his experience in TAU – there was one of WAU’s creatures in there – in a suit just like his, the globe helmet fractured, and structure gel arched in pained branches. Would it be dead at this point? He can only wonder as he yanks the tubing down over Catherine’s leg – only going as far as a slight adjustment as her foot keeps the suit stuck in place around the necrosis limb. He’ll have to go straight at the tissue, holding it in place over his shoulder.

It’s another thing that makes his throat-less body gag. Being this close.

The circular saw fragment chews through skin, making jagged cuts as he cuts through pale skin jagged teeth chewing into the muscles. He’s careful as he saws the limp tendons, pressing the metal against the head of the joint in hopes the structure gel might be able to mimic and mend the joint properly.

After he finally removes his knee from his fucked-up body.

Back and forth he rends the blade, unable to keep himself from comparing the action to sawing through wood. The motions are so similar, and he finds it so easy to fall into a rhythm of cutting the leg off the corpse of someone he knows. If he could just close his eyes – his piercing red optics reflecting on the shell of power suit thigh – he could pretend that it was just that – cutting through wood and not the body of what may be his only ‘friend’ in this hell.

But he can’t.

Simon is careful as he slices between bone, teasing against the tendon keeping the leg against his shoulder as the saw grinds against bone. It’s difficult keeping the leg angled right, and so he pulls the armored shin against his front, gloved fingers pulling against flayed flesh. He’s holding her leg with the hand he stole from her, something that makes him pause. But only for a moment as he deepens the cut at the fastening tendon.

There’s a snapping jolt as the leg jumps in his grip, Simon nearly falling over as the limb leaps over his shoulder and back to the floor with a heavy clunk. A quick look back is all he needs, grabbing the dismembered hunk and pulling it into his lap.

“Okay,” Simon whispers to himself, looking at the fractured saw blade and its twisted teeth that scratched at muscle and bone. “You can do this, Simon,” he tries to mock reassurance, something he think that Catherine might’ve said. It’s the only thing he can latch onto, her directions, her lead.

Would he make it this far on his own?

He would’ve been torn up in UPSILON.

Internally he frowns. That’s the truth of it, without her direction, where the fuck would he be now?

No matter how much he hates it.

“You’re right Catherine, I’m a moron,” he sighs; great, he was talking to a corpse. “What are you even doing, Simon,” he exasperates, slouching as he stares at the saw blade fracture. Talking to himself. What else is he suppose to do?

Cut off leg, go back to TAU, is all he can make sense of in terms of directions. What was he going to do if he got to TAU? Go back through the abyssal plain and hope the climber still worked? Was there any chance that it was still working? What was even his chances to get back to the climber in the first place, in the darkness of the abyss.

He slaps himself back to the reality – sitting on the floor with a saw blade in hand, his friend’s leg in his lap, and his own mangled limp leg the target of his next objective. Mutilating himself to further his own survival; it’s only reasonable – as the last person on earth.

He finds it hard to breathe the further he thinks about it.

Alone; his only companion crumbled dead on the floor and in his backpack.

Maybe, he can talk to her again.

Tell her how right she was, that without her he’s nothing.

That he doesn’t want to die alone.

With a disparaged existence.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

On the way something else will tear him up.

And he presses the serrated blade against his knee, numb nerves transmitting the fogged pain as structure gel writhes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-


	11. Without you

Simon stops for a moment, forcing a strangled inhale of biological musk as gasses are forced through stolen lungs. He tries not to think about it; that nothing is his, especially the hand gripping his leg still for the saw blade wielded by his right hand. Silence, a sigh, he pulls it back in hesitation. It’s going to hurt, that is the truth of it – still remembering the blinding pain as he tried to sever it with the claw of a hammer. He huffs; over his hesitation? His foolishness before trying to force his knee to not be broken? For even striking metal with his knee when he was stuck in the damn chair?

Not even he knows, as he presses the saw blade back to his stolen flesh, against the busted knee joint and hanging drips of recoiling structure gel. It must know what’s going to happen, abandoning his leg through the top potion of the boot and back into his suit – writhing over the power suit’s plates and into small gashes and nooks, melding with the gel wrapped around his chest and still mending arm.

It’s done an excellent job at integrating it on – Catherine’s arm.

And he hopes it does the same magic wonder on his leg.

He cuts off the wrapping that holds the lower chunk of armor around the joint, adjusting it out of the way the best he can manage before striking against what muscle remains. It of course still rings numb, nerves made dead by the structure gel’s slow departure to his other extremities.

But there’s still the occasional spikes as he cuts through muscle, ones that make the structure gel tremble as he disconnects the tendons from bone with sickening snaps. Though it, he might’ve well had a grimace on his face as he watched the saw blade cut through it, rending it free with a jolt and a final snap as the connection is torn from bone to bone.

Even though Simon was ready for it he’s sent reeling, biting down on a false tongue, grinding emotional teeth as the pain seers through his nerves. He falls back, holding the open stump with a hiss and shout as the inky black structure gel slowly starts its crawl to the open wound. It stakes down his chest and armor as he let the aching settle, rising back into a sit with Catherine’s severed leg held tight against his chest – he feels stupid clinging to it and fixes it against the open wound.

Simon still has to wait, staring down at the forming connection.

He’s never sure how long he’ll have to wait; there’s no one there to read the time to him or something that would even display the time. Everything is dark except for the torch fixed into his mechanical cortex, the only thing that makes him…. Him. What makes Simon… Simon.

And Simon hates waiting.

He hisses as structure gel works over the multilated pieces of flesh; as it binds tendon to tendon, reforming missing fragments as ill black chunks laced with bubbled muted glow. The pain surges, nerves seizing as his nerves force him to remain still, staring as the gel mends. Over time, as his thoughts drift back and forth through anxiety and resentment, the structure gel’s volume doubles to compensate for the damage made by hammer strikes.

It does make him wonder, what if it was a human that directed the structure gel, and the rouge WAU? It would’ve made sustaining PATHOS-II less hazardous, maybe safer. But with the WAU gone, he guesses, there might not be anything left between him and the climber. If he could get there, he might be able to make it back to Omicron.

He doubts it, of course, seeing as he walked all this way through the abyss to get from the Climber to Tau, and the worms.

The worms.

Those were what he has to worry about. They’d be able to gobble him up in a second – hell it took out that guidance robot that was going to take him to TAU! Maybe on his way to TAU – or through TAU – he might be able to find something to help him on his way. Something to follow.

Then there was that thing in TAU; the other … thing in a power suit. Was it someone like him? Would he even hazard trying to get their attention or try to talk to them? Or where they just another one of WAU’s creatures – would they be dead with the WAU dead?

Was the WAU even dead at this point?

He knows he sacrifice his hand to the damn thing, delivered his poisoned structure gel – or what ever the hell that Ross character did to it before all hell broke loose on OMICRON. Somehow it caused harm to WAU, and in turn Ross wanted him dead.

But here he was, staring down as the same structure gel starts to pull Catherine’s leg into his own – not his own – onto the body of someone else he stole from. Nothing of this is him, just bits and pieces; a robot cortex, another person’s body, Catherine’s left arm and right leg, a power suit, and all that was him?

A file in the cortex, the most insignificant thing.

If he had a mouth he’d frown, watching as the structure gel writhes around his joint, slowly feeling the numb tingling subsiding. Further down the limb he can start to move his … Catherine’s foot, tilting it as much as he can – wiggling unseen toes as he shuffles onto his hip. He reaches for the backpack and pulls out the door opener…. the omni-tool … Catherine.

Simon stares at it, his sentimental brick as he loses himself to thought.

What would she think?

She was so nonchalant about when he found her corpse, treating it as just another bump in getting the ARK out into space no matter the cost. She was so driven to just get that damn thing out of here – never giving a thought to the coin toss they lost. A part of her would’ve known, that one piece would lose the coin toss. She was ready for it and … she didn’t prepare him for it. Was it on her to tell his ass the obvious?

Maybe.

She tried.

Simon sighs, “I knew this was probably going to happen… I’m sorry for what I said, Catherine. I didn’t want to believe I’d be stuck down here, and you’d be stuck in there.” He holds the omnitool against the front of the suit’s thick glass helmet, as though he was resting it against his head. But of course, that’s impossible.

He doesn’t have one.

He grimaces as the structure gel squeezes around his leg, looking down in scorn as best he can with his red robotic optics. The mass around his joint bulges, writhing as he palms over the mass to press it down in a gentle press. It’s soft, squishy, returns back to its shape as the pressure subsides, and most importantly of all; it doesn’t hurt. “Finally,” he laughs, “I can get out of this hell hole,” he says only for himself, pressing the dark veined mass down into the rest of the diving suit leg. Over it he slides the connective material, were structure gel tendrils snag and pull, tugging the parts back together as a living seam.

Just driven to help whichever host it was attached to, a helpful parasite.

If it wasn’t for the structure gel he wouldn’t even be in this situation – nor Catherine nor Ross nor anyone else on Pathos-II. The WAU wouldn’t be keeping people alive … snagged into walls and integrated into machines, like a cruel life support.

Simon dumps everything out on the floor beside him and looks over it.

The Omnitool sits perched on his leg, over looking the cluttered pile strewn over the floor. The broken part of circular saw, a spool of solder, two cutters; one for wires, one to bite through metal – he wasn’t sure if he was going to use them when he picked them up. He figures he could use the spool of solder for something, but that was if the portable welder worked and it’s in the rocket bay. He slides it off to the side, then slides it into the rocket bay where the spool clinks. It’s the only sound apart from his empty breaths.

He still might find a use for the circular saw, as a weapon against the worms, and the cutters he might find use for on his way back to the climber. Over by Catherine’s corpse he eyes the wrench that took her life – he could use that, and the hammer he threw away up in the bathroom on the next floor up. He might be able to salvage a few more things now that he wouldn’t be walking on a crippled limb – but he’s getting ahead of himself, he still needs to test it for himself.

Simon shovels all the items near him into the backpack, save for the omnitool which he tucks away into the front pouch. Tossing it over on his left, he leans on his side, pulling the new leg close to his body. As he tests the joint, exercising the limb back and forth, a hand holds against the gooey knee, feeling the structure gel writhe and conform to the motions beneath the thick fabric.

He stomps his foot against the ground once, then twice, twisting the ankle circular and up and down.

“Thanks, Catherine,” he whispers to her corpse, his emotional core coiling. “What would I ever do without you.”

Simon takes another look at her dismembered corpse, as the flies congregate around the open wounds of her limbs and the festering mess at the back of her caved in skull. Through her hair he can see new maggots worm around; and looks away, shoving himself up as he picks up the bloody wrench.

He hoists the backpack onto his back with his right, staring down at his left – Catherine’s hand, Catherine’s power suit. Even if she wasn’t able to speak with him now, at least this way she can still help him bumble his way back to the climber.

As he leaves the bay, he makes one final look back.

And looks away, walking towards the ladder to retrieve the hammer on the floor above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-


	12. Leaving PHI behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon takes his time going back up the ladder to PHI’s upper floors, getting a sense of his new limbs as he makes the ascent. Her hand was only slightly smaller than Raleigh’s, a difference he only feels with the slight jostling of the gauntlet around his hand – Catherine’s hand. Once at the top he takes his time returning to the service area, glancing into the dive room where WAU nodes are silently fizzling; there’s only a slight biolumine glow echoing through the seeping structure gel forms, chitin growths dropping and limp. ‘Might find something useful in there…’ he muses to himself as he wanders back into the service hall, returning to the bathroom where he tore his knee open with a hammer.

He finds it laid between WAU growths in the dark corner of the small bathroom, splattered with black and stained red at the metal head. As he steps on the once firm growth it creaks, cracking beneath his heavy boot. Another oozes as he crouches down to pick up the hammer, liquid structure gel pooling as he only holds the hammer – not tucking it into the backpack just yet.

In the storage room just beside the bathroom he heaves the backpack onto one of the empty shelving units, placing the hammer down beside it as he takes his time looking around the small room; for anything he may have missed in his initial one-handed search. He pries open blue Carthage cases as he searches, tearing open the one metal casing that is filled with nothing. The team left almost nothing behind when they returned to TAU, aside from a worn-down tie-down strap and metal ratchet that was wedged between the wall and a blue container filled with bags of spare wiring components. Much of the other cases are just the same – filled with sectioned off spare parts – storage units for replacement washers, screw bolts, and in so many unusual sizes, and of course other replacement parts.

With a sigh he shoves the container on top of the other two, back into the corner against the small jug of kerosene – something he deems useless in his predicament.

Back against the wall, watching the WAU structures hanging from the ceiling, he toys with the strap and metal ratchet. He needs to figure out his next move; how to get back to TAU.

He looks back down the hallway, knowing he has two ways back. Either to take the air lock on this floor that opens to the open ocean or the air lock on the floor below – where the ARK made it through from TAU. There’s still a chance he could work his way back through in that direction and go straight to TAU instead of wandering back, hoping that there is still some lighting out on the ocean floor.

That and the WAU worms might still be out there, waiting for him.

Would they even still be alive at this point?

From the ceiling the WAU nodes slowly drip, dangling gleams of chitin oozing through their open cracks illuminated by a residual glow. Areas that would usually be pulsating blue are quiet; just like the nodes in the bathroom. Below it the floor is covered in pooling structure gel, barely splashing as he steps beneath the growth and reaches up for a dangling chitin tendril.

With one hand he brushes against it, a once firm structure has gone limp, moving with his hand as he grasps and squeezes. Liquid black drips down his palm as it begins to crack, bleeding as he tugs it. There’s a jolt as it breaks off, Simon stepping back as structure gel splashes against his shins.

In his hand the WAU growth is fragmented, dead.

He drops it to the floor, wiping his hand against the shelving unit.

And Simon takes the hammer and whacks one of the bulbous nodes.

His speakers release a grunt as the node bursts, splattering black against the opposing wall. Simon backs away from the sudden pouring of fluid structure gel, stun silent as he stares at the growths. “Well, at least Ross’ idea worked,” he grumbles, flicking fluid from the hammer head.

The WAU is dead, at least here in PHI; maybe that means the giant worms are also dead? But there’s still the issue with power – was there enough power on the backup generator to let him open just one of the air locks? It could fizzle out at any time; he should check the power level but where? Everything that isn’t part of the backup system has a screen, a simple read out of how much and where – the first relay is on this floor.

He shoves the hammer and tie-down strap ratchet combo into the back pack.

At the end of the hall he checks the power relay for any display on the power level. Of course, there’s none. With a groan he starts back down the hallway to the main portion of the upper floor of PHI, turning away from the main control room to check the air lock to see if the omnitool panel has power. It’s worth a shot at the very least, though considering the other screen displays are down – it might be bust as well. It only takes a quick peak to confirm his suspicion – the read out is dark, it has no power.

“Guess I’ll be taking the tunnel,” he sighs under his breath, relieved.

But before returning to the lower floor, he takes a detour to the dive room first. Simon wrestles a limp WAU growth away from the front of one of the lockers, tugging the metal door open and breaking the lock with the power suit’s enhanced strength. Again, he’s still in no rush to speed things along, time is on his side as WAU structures have began to die off, diseased with his special concoction structure gel.

In one locker he finds some maintenance zip ties; in another a set of pipe strap kits – a small scale version of the one already tucked away at his back. He shambles the items into his backpack, pressing them deep inside to make room for whatever items he might find on the floor below.

Once he’s there, it doesn’t take him long to finish scavenging the lower floor, steering himself away from the loading bay where Catherine’s body continues to rot. The only things he finds that could be of use are a pair of metal hooks – ones he breaks from their housing in the second chamber. Before he makes one final look around, he peaks into the air lock that leads to the tunnel – relieved to see there is a manual emergency override.

And to his dismay, he sees something.

It needs fuel.

He left the small jug of kerosene on the floor above.

With a sigh he drops his backpack just outside the air lock chamber so he can fetch the jug; an item he remembers was slightly heavy and would rather not try and juggle both items going back down the ladder. He pulls out the items he collected for now, wanting to not have to carry the heavy and round jug in his arms down the precarious ladder.

Circular saw fragment, a wire cutter and a metal cutter, a bloody wrench and a bloody hammer, a thick tie-down strap and two small pipe strap kits, maintenance zip ties, two metal hooks broken from aged housing.

Simon’s sentimental brick, the omnitool, Catherine, remains in the front pocket.

It doesn’t take long for him to climb back up the rungs and retrieve the jug of kerosene, pulling it out inside the air lock before stuffing his scavenged tools back inside the bag. He sets it down near the door before he returns to the manual override mechanism – its parts rusty from disuse and repeated exposure to alternating salt water and recycled air. He has to strain to open the pour valve, tearing the threading before pouring some of the kerosene fluid into the system.

The worn-down panel to the side of the ‘emergency override’ plate guides him through the process, using a hand pump to force the fluid through the system. He can here it chug deep in the wall as he works. “Come on, come on,” he grumbles, slowly filling the emergency system with more fluid, watching a pressure meter rise back to a green bar.

As he starts the hand pump again he can hear a click, watching as the forced hydraulic system begins pushing the latches on the door into the unlocked position.

“There we fucking go,” he cheers, watching the pressure panel and the slowly grinding door. “That’s how we do it.” He encourages himself, repeating the process over and over again, watching with lifted spirits as the door locks shift to the unlocked position – the mechanism that kept the large rounded lock firmly in place.

There’s a clunk when he reaches the end of the emergency unlock’s extent, leaving him to shift the door from locked to unlock.

But before he does that, he allows himself to bask in his triumph, one step closer to getting to TAU. He’s gotten from being trapped in a chair, fought his own nerves back into PHI, and struggled with himself to pull himself back together. He can worry about other things along the way – the tunnel might be clogged with debris but he has tools to dig through them, work his way back into TAU.

Simon digs out the omnitool housing Catherine’s consciousness, and stares.

“I’ll get us out of here, Catherine. And get us back to Omnicron. So we can figure out what to do now.”

He’s aware she can’t hear him – that her moments of consciousness skips from one to the next. She may not know how much he struggled, how much more he has to fight through to get back to the climber. It is, of course, his sentimental brick.

Simon stuffs it back into the front of the backpack, strapping the arms around one of the pipes and lets it hang freely. He wouldn’t want it between his body and the wall – risking crushing anything when the water finally broken through the seal. At the bottom of the door he can see an emergency vent – a way to let water fill the air lock. He wouldn’t have to fight the immense pressure of the sea – and so he kicks it.

Letting water burst through the tubing and start to flood the lower floor of PHI.


	13. Finding a way through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

It surges around his calves as he stumbles, gripping the central piping as the water jettisons from the broken ventilation and blows against the opposing wall. Simon can only hold on and wait as water storms through around him, blowing his vision white as he’s caught in the gushing torrent. Hands palm around the piping, pulling himself around the pressed backpack barely hanging on as the water slowly begins to rise.

Another pipe burst as the water rises up around his knees – blasting an alarm that there’s a leak in the lingering pressurization system. The electronic scream is near muted in the blast of ocean water, tossing particles of torn up sea life against the wall. He can only tell as the water begins to run red, cannibalizing an unseen body at the piping’s entrance as the water pressure struggles to equalize. It’s at his waist as the spray resumes in ernest, ejecting particulates of the massive body that was caught in the rapid decompression. Chunks of chewed up flesh litter the water around him, pieces of bones broken and fragmented as the water continues to rise.

Through beady red optics Simon can only stare at the gore begins to rise around him, water running a muted red before its sucked out among the rest of the lower chambers. It makes Simon glad he’s wearing the diving suit – that it prevents him from being cannibalized with the strength of rushing water.

He catches a chunk of flesh in his hand and stares as the water surges up around his neck, kneeling down to get a better view beneath the bubbling surface of matter caught by the top of the airlock doors. The flesh was black chitin, gleaming with dead greens beneath the gaze of his head mounted flashlight.

Curious, he swipes his hand among the surface of the overtaking water, taking a handful of the dark matter. In his hands are particles stuck with quivering structure gel, bulbs of dead green straining to pulsate as his own gel holds firm at his cobbled together shoulder. If he had brows, they’d be crossed; letting them drift from his hand.

A WAU creature got torn apart.

He hopes it remains dead.

Simon brushes away anxious thoughts as he moves around the central piping, his flashlight bright in the dim crimson water as he reach the airlock once again. Both hands grip the central plate as he forces the physical lock to turn to the open position, fingers affirmed in the small holes as he drives the metal into the open position inside the thick metal. He waits for his hands to not be able to budge before his body shifts, placing palms flat against the two-ton door before he leans up against it.

The door easily rolls open beneath his hands, walking the gap wider until it collides with the barnacle covered wall of the transport tunnel.

He’s finally out of PHI.

And all he does is sigh.

He’s got a long way to go back to the climber, back to omnicron.

Simon retrieves the backpack from the affixture it has on the piping in the center of the now gaping airlock. He ruffles through it for the omnitool, a crumpling feeling crawling inside his chest as he pulls it out and holds onto it tight. He takes a glance down the tunnel, and all he can see is the black nothingness; an endless walk that’ll take him right into the busted underside of TAU. He can’t remember the condition of its airlock – wasn’t the outside-in side securely in place? Surely, he remembers pulling out the piping, forcing it to flood as it knocked him out for a moment. But he know one thing, that the ARC made it through the collapse in the tunnel’s path, so he can work himself through it no matter how much debris he has to dig through.

Intaking a slow, choked breath made of recirculating stale air, Simon begins to walk.

He doesn’t count the steps as he proceeds into the darkness, mind already reoccupied about what he’s going to do once he does inevitably reach TAU. Once he climbs his way over the obstruction, after he figures out how to get into the airlock, what else will he have to contend with? There’s the body wandering in the underbelly of TAU that is the first to come to mind; a body shredded with WAU structure gel and encased in a power suit shell.

He can still remember it clearly; a frightful figure standing in the doorway of the alarming airlock, silhouette by the glow of external lighting fixtures as it hobbles after him faster than it should be able to move. Simon was only barely able to put space between it and himself, slamming a door closed in its face, hearing metal fingers drag harsh as he anxiously sneaks around them....

Simon can still hear the echoing, crackling screeches; gargling and terrible as thick dollops of wasting mass follows in its stumbling wake. It shambled after him through the dark halls and labs – rooms taken by chaotic WAU growths as he kited it around a metal slab. It barely caught hold of his back, the metal finger tips grazing harsh before he delivered it a sudden kick to knock it off balance.

He almost dropped Catherine when he climbed to safety.

Even now he holds his grip firm around the small device, faltering to remembrance as he walks through the abyssal waters.

His mind threatening to repeat against the looming dread.

Would the climber still work?

As he walks he shoves away the thought, clinging tight to the sentimental brick, dragging his concentration down to the device with a hand grazing over the scratched metal. Catherine’s hand holds Catherine up for him – his other stolen limb tracing index and thumb over the long quiet device. At top the structure gel coated sentience looms back at him; part of him drawing it as an accusing glare. It draws from him an exhausted sigh, looking towards the damaged tunnel before him.

There’s a hole on one side, busted inward with fractured metal ribs that opens out into the cold unemotional cold of the abyss. It’s as wide as the worm that chased him on his way to TAU, the worm that chased him at last into PHI. A part of him reverts into panic, remembering the creaks of metal as a large body drove itself into PHI’s hull. He draws it back to earlier, as he flooded the lower floor of PHI with the torrent of water.

There was an immense amount of blood, flesh stuck sickly black and chitin coated with WAU corruption growths. Something that would’ve been something obscene for a horror movie – water white dyed deep red with pieces of flesh. It all floated up around him, surrounding him. Maybe it meant the WAU worm was dead.

Hopefully.

Simon draws himself away from thinking of the groaning terror, palming over the arching obstruction sat between him and the entrance back into PHI. Half of it was collapsed, leaving barely enough room around the top track for the ARC’s earlier trek. Rocks and broken metal shrapnel surround him as he looks it over, fingers gripping around thick bulging stones that were shoved into the tunnel. There’s barely any room on this side for him to crawl through either; it’s going to take a while to get through either way.

He slides Catherine back into the front of the backpack; and gets to work.

Placing the backpack off to the side, he starts to pull the rubble away from the meager opening at the top, careful as to not let stones fall onto him as he yanks large stones. Instead of placing them behind him, he takes time to carry them to the torn opening in the side, tossing them into the darkness before he returns to the pile. Stone by stone, bit by bit, he works up a better slope for him to climb to the top.

But just as he makes it to the top a stone slips beneath his boot, forcing him to grab the railing above him.

Air circulates through his bitter, stinging lungs as he finds his footing again, kicking scraps of metal to loosen the pile off on his right. It crumbles behind him, faltering in the darkness into a crumbled pile. Simon looks back over it, to the rail he’s holding, to the backpack on his left side and below.

He’s got a use for those hooks after all.

Simon drops himself down the pile, barely skidding to the floor where his feet wedge between tumbled stones. With ease he frees himself, plucking the backpack from its perch and digging into its bulging rear sack for the rusted metal hooks. One by one he undoes the straps, looping the tough fiber through the torn housings of the hooks before latching them back to the shoulder holsters. When he holds them by the hooks, he’s able to hold it… mostly steady, twisting them end over end before becoming satisfied with the result.

Back at the top of the slope, he snags the backpack around the ceiling rail, twined hooks holding it suspended and away from the crumbling stones.

For the first time in a while, Simon feels triumphant.


	14. Breaking through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon digs through the stacked rubble, throwing stone chunks way from where he kneels. Motions fall into repetition, fingers gripping at slick water-logged matter as he shoves it all aside. At first they’re thrown behind him and into the darkness of the tunnel connecting PHI and TAU, a brief rumbling of collisions ringing mute in the dense water pressure. One after another he moves bits of crumbled debris, concentrated on filling the gaps along the side of the collapsed passage before moving onto the next section. Bit by bit, Simon drags the backpack after him, and once he’s certain to affix it to the ceiling rail again, he goes back to work.

It’s mindless, taking stone upon stone, small corpses of sea life crushed by the collapse tossed back into the water as he works himself through.

But still, despite his best efforts, his mind falters back into senseless panic. The thought of what if there’s another closure, where it wedges him between the metal ribs of the ceiling and the stones below. It tears at his thoughts as he keeps himself repeating the motions; stacking stones to the side as he slowly crawls forward beside the railing, the smallest gap he can possibly fit in as he crawls. He doesn’t want to lie on his stomach, nor does he want to end up wedged between the rubble as he stacks it off to the side.

Simon kneels silent among the stone, alternating to having his light off or on depending on his level of comfort. But the suit makes it hard for him to sense where he’s going, where he’s putting the stones.

But at the same time he’s worried if there is a battery that threatens to run out inside him. It worms itself inside his thoughts, drawing him anxious to the point he has to carve out a small stop in the slow, agonizing crawl.

He looks back, he can barely see where he started behind him, the light only goes so far.

In both hands he yanks the backpack down, scrounging for the omnitool he presses against his chest in a bitter spur of anxiety.

“It’s okay, Simon,” he mumbles to himself in third person. Curling up in the small crevasse among the sea of stones. “There’s only a little further to go, till you reach TAU’s airlock.” His hands grind against the surface for a moment, drawing his hands open as he stares down.

“There might still be power in TAU, not enough to run any systems. Maybe I can force the airlock open if it’s still functional.”

He just has to hope there’s a workaround for the difference in air pressure – possibly flooding the lowest floor of TAU just like with PHI. He can’t really remember anything except for the piles breaking, a collision, waking up to the airlock door opening and the ARC crawling along the track. If the mechanism still functions, maybe he could get in without flooding it all?

Simon’s mind distracts from hopeful optimism, reminding him of how hopelessly alone he still is. The corpse of the last human, a woman wasted as those below were turned into WAU abominations.

Would he have to fight those?

He forces himself to tuck Catherine back into the backpack, hooking it against the railing.

He’ll just have to find out.

Again he falls into the motion of holding and throwing, filling the gap between the outer part of the tunnel ribs. Slowly making progress, he reminds himself as he moves, kneeling on the stone as he’s forced to crawl and remove wedges made by larger stones. The pieces are getting thicker, having to turn himself around and kick off portions of increasingly larger boulders the closer he gets to the end of the obstruction. Strong legs fragment the stone juts, forcing air to escape the quickly closing gaps as the stones beneath him shift. It startles him the first time, fingers gripping on the rails as panic grips his exhausted lungs.

He has to keep going.

And he does, pushing himself to budge the stones no matter how hopeless it may appear after one kick, or two, or fifty.

But it doesn’t ease the aching in his chest, drawn by a clawing panic as he wants to be done now.

Each kick reinforces an aching dread.

He kicks, to barely a change in the large stone is made.

Another.

And another.

And yet another.

Digging into his chest as a fissure begins to grow from his brutal assault against stone.

Until it finally snaps through the center, tumbling down and bringing the slope down with it.

Simon barely has time to grip the ceiling rail, latching onto it as the stones around him fall out in a curved slope. Jagged stones jab against his side as they pass, scratching the power suit as he’s wedge between tumbling stones and the central obstruction between his legs. The water around him is a flurry with bubbles and particle debris clouding his vision – even with his flashlight off.

And suddenly it stops, leaving Simon to cling to the railing with the massive boulder jutting up between his legs – keeping him above the crumpled pile of jagged stones. His breathing is erratic, a dead heart pumping structure gel through gasping lungs circulating dead musky air. Simon lingers there, staring down below him where the pile of stones have settled.

Well.

He’s gotten through to the other side.

It’s another brief moment of triumphant, cut short as panic sets in.

Where was the backpack?

And Catherine?

He feels behind him on the rail and its not there, panic gripping inside his lungs.

Once he turns around the panic dissipates. He just failed to move it closer as he worked on the stone obstruction.

Carefully he crawls back to it, feet sliding on the stones as he moves close enough to unhook the restraints holding it to the rail line. And he sets himself back towards TAU, skidding down the short slope before finding his feet finally beneath him, looking back over the obstruction and the quiet opening that lead him straight to site ALPHA. To where the WAU rots in its poisoned lair. The growths surrounding the tunnel are withered, dangling limp and at will to the motion of water as he passes.

“Good riddance,” he mutters, following the tunnel back to TAU’s airlock.

Simon holds the backpack close, pushing it beneath the tunnel’s fractured ribs before he pulls himself beneath them. He doesn’t want to lose sight of it, he doesn’t want to lose sight of Catherine.

He wanders through the open end of the airlock, walking past the busted pipes lingering around as he rummages inside the backpack. The omnitool scanner is staring at him, his gaze affixed as he hopes, endlessly, that it’ll work. His hand lingers around the omnitool, grip affirming as he fights inside his mind.

What if it doesn’t work?

A turmoil boils inside his circuitry skull, crawling through nerves made of stolen flesh and restrained structure gel. His shoulder droop, staring at it, at where the pressure reading indicates the difference between the two sides of the inner door. Something else could burst – the flooding pipes are already open so draining it would be useless. Would that prevent the outer door from closing? What about the inner one; what would happen when it opened, if it opened?

He pulls out the sentimental brick and holds it above the panel and just … hopes.

It beeps for a second, whirls surrounding him as mechanisms spring to life. When he pulls the omnitool away it still works, closing the outer airlock seal in a slow crawl sucking through the water before a loud clatter reverbs through the structure – locks rolling into place.

Patiently, anxiously, Simon waits as the system runs.

The system staggers to initiate the drainage procedure, trying to suck out the water flooding the airlock chamber. It surges around him in a repeating cycle, of water being emptied and replenished in rapid succession. No matter how much water it drains, there’s still more coming.

Simon digs into the sack, which he lets flop on top of the service console beside the inner door.

He pulls out the hammer first, still spattered and stained from his blood by his bitter angsty. With all his might he strikes one of the ventilation pipes, denting it over and over, pushing the metal haphazardly inwards in hope to inevitably seal it once more. If he can work his way to break a boulder between him and TAU, he can bust a pipe – striking it in various angles until it crumples against itself.

One down, three to go.

He makes quick work as the ventilation system strains to drain the water, alarms blaring in the next room over as the hammer strikes against metal over and over.

He has to get into TAU.

The strikes the metal with the hammer, resounding in the rushing water around him.

He just has to.

Metal rings as water surges, alarms blaring and drawing his mind into a frenzy.

There’s no other way he can continue living.

It rings again.

He has to get to the climber.

Again, as the pipes begin to buckle, the inner door threatening to crack under the storming load of rushing water.

It’s the only way he can survive.

Around him water crashes, sending him up against the door as it buckles under the pressure load. He screams, voice catching in his stagnant lungs as metal aches around him and screeches. The globe helmet of his head strikes the door frame as it buckles beside him, bursting inward and sending water to rush into the dive room in a thunderous storm.

And silence.


	15. The accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon can feel himself drifting.

Thoughts run unfurled as optics remain untrained, vision warping operations struggle to engage beneath staggering dead made breaths. A beeping hammers inside his skull, inside his mind as he struggles to turn himself around in the vast emptiness that swallows him whole. Once held hooks drift from limp fingers, grasping and reaching as the items fade into the encompassing black. Senses in muscles between to feel twists, bending backwards as shoulders begin to ache and burn; even as he tries to roll and twist, trying to tear himself away from the blistering pain. Screams are made silent by inoperable speakers, panic engulfs his severed throat, struggling useless against the phantom restrains. Trails of structure gel glints in the low light of a flickering head lamp, making lines that lead back through the inky water to where arms are twisted from reclaimed sockets.

He can’t see the forces tearing his arms backwards, teeth digging deep and chewing against metal and disheveled skin. They gnaw as the pain surges through broken limbs, tattered and in ruin as the light of the climber fades above him – forcing an arm free to reach to the dying light.

Surges of pain carries through as Simon’s palms grip the metal floor, sound ringing muted as audio receptors scramble to make sense. Immobile, body heavy, fingers digging against wet metal and drifting debris. Fists shove their way beneath his heavy-set body, faltering against the floor before plates snag in place. Yet, as a hand slips beneath him Simon doesn’t fall fast, drifting down in the drifting current swell.

Red optics strain to find focus, vision blurred in the myriad of dark and bright, emergency lines flashing in between items adrift in the decompression. Light blares through a gap in the debris, and he guides his sight back down to focus, focus, focus. Focus on the gorges in the metal floor, the scratches made of aged damage of falling payloads bars, of dropped power tools, the regions where repairs had once been made – solder mending metal to metal. His bulbous head barely shakes as nausea swarms inside an empty gut – unable to fulfill it or rid of the very human sensation of distortion.

Why is he so light?

He finds it as he rolls into a kneel, palms holding over the sight of his aching skull – a machine mind made human – a transfer with still all the nagging uncomfortabilities of a human body. Hands press against the thick glass of the dive suit that makes Simon’s body, as though it was his face, seen as holding down against wet skin, drifting to rub over hammering temples.

Particulates float in the dimly lit waters in the coaxing swells.

Around him debris drifts lazy in the current brought by the struggling pump system, vacuuming out water beneath him that is just as quickly replenished by the broken piping. Items shaken by the sudden flood drift above him in the blaring emergency lights as the automated machinery strains under the ocean’s revitalized pressure. Light material clings in the faint hints of light unobscured by oozing structure gel – making dense sheen in the water’s alternating surface.

Simon’s head is still hammering, delirious, disoriented, dissociative. 

“Need to keep moving,” a whisper reminds him, a voice not unlike his own.

His stomach aches queasy, fluids billowing from the severed stump within the head of the diving suit, a fluid sloshing he can hear as he tries to move, tries to stand among the spilt darkness as legs wobble beneath slow, staggering steps. His left is barely able to hold onto the door frame back into the airlock, vision remaining unfocused as he tries to remember. Where was the backpack, where was his gear.

Where was Catherine?

Roaming hands eventually find where he had left the sack, on top of the service console they finger and fiddle, brain running numb in attempting processing. It wasn’t there. Where was it.

Where?

Where, where, where – a quick turn causes him to stumble, hands grasping the door frame as his legs fall out beneath him, head burning as it collides with the dense metal frame. Vision still unfocused, wandering, feeling out among the small dive room for the sack, for his sentimental brick as fear grips around Simon’s ailing chest. Without it, what reason would he have to go on, living alone in the abyss.

Fumbling, he tries to force back the ideology of loneliness; where all he has is time, waiting for his enigmatic battery to finally run low, drifting into a painless sleep as the last human consciousness on earth. Two floors above lies the last human, her body frail, made of an endless struggle that seems more like his own as he drifts back to the ground, fingers in a frantic search in the darkness. His lamp remains off, unable to process as panic grips his dead lungs, struggling to breath the nauseous air panicked. It seems endless as he counts the seconds in the back of his mind, frantic and becoming frail as anxiety boils.

Did it get sucked into the pump system? What was he going to do now?

Feeling foolish when he does find it – pushed against the door frame that leads into the ladder.

Yet panic still grips him, ensnaring the backpack within trembling arms. There’s still hope for him, he can still get out of this, he can do this; he tries to coax himself, legs running numb as an elbow taps the door panel open.

A burst of water pushes him against the ladder, breath catching compressed as it strikes into his side, stumbling and queasy as he tries to lie back as the ocean fills the room equalized. Another tap prompts the door close – trapping the ocean water in the narrow tube.

He can’t rest now, a part of him tries to scream.

A palm caresses the shape of the door opener in the front pocket, concerned about the damages it could’ve sustained in the sudden torrent. Its hard to figure through the dull sensation of the metal digits, through the drenched fabric, and he doesn’t have much light. A thought crosses to check it now, where the light is made dim by the fogged ocean water, and is ceremoniously dismissed, wrestling it over his arm for the slow, meandering climb to the residential floor above.

Uncertain of what he’d find.

But, it’s still the same as how he left it once he found the ARK. Flies still swarm around the forgotten food he’s grateful he doesn’t have the pleasure of smelling, hobbling to the closest seat and throwing the waste onto the floor. The wet sack takes its place with a careless plop, dropping as arms go lax, leaning back and staring at the dim lights around him. His vision is still faded, foggy and swirling as he tries to make sense.

Was this the first part before he died? His vision goes first?

A snort whispers through Simon’s speaker, careless as thoughts run while in cause and effect. Was it the impact that made him this way – thrown against the ground – was this what Catherine felt as she lied dying in a pool of her own blood?

What was going through that Catherine’s mind as she lied dying – was there remorse, anger, frustration? Simon wonders, palms pressing around the glass of the diving suit head, feeling over for rifts and injuries he might’ve sustained to explain the onset ailment. Digits crawl, painfully aware of the reminiscence of when he woke; the car accident, the stables on his scalp from a bleeding brain. Trying to feel ignites the old trauma, mind flashing to the seconds, the minutes, the hours before the impact against his forehead, the splitting pain as whiplash arched up his spine, the sound of sirens as his vision fogs, head adrift as paramedics pull him from the vehicle and onto a stretcher. Where’s Ashley, where’s Ashley proclaims as they force him sedated, hands injecting, moving, feeling as he’s loaded into the ambulance. It was a blur after that, a road of endless tests, of endless migraines and tattered nerves as his brain swelled and press against the incisions.

A sigh huffs as hands drop back to his side, trying to get his eyes to close, trying to drift into a welcomed darkness.

But he can’t, forced staring at the ceiling with an endless gaze.

Simon’s so tired, giving into the biting panic to soothe his aching captive nerves.

He just wants to sleep.

He just wants to sleep.

A hand scratches against the side of the diving suit’s helmet, pressing along it – a dent. There’s water in his head, as swelling in his metal skull. The accident all over again; but this time he’s alone, so utterly, uselessly, hopelessly, alone in the whole world.


	16. Choking on air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

The aching within his chest swells as thick gloved hands crawl over his glass features, rolling his vision in motions made from falsed neck movements. Aching to just feel something human, to touch some semblance that he’s physically alive – even as his mind withdraws into malcontent. This is not a life he wants to live, he can’t live like this, he can’t struggle in every step. But he also doesn’t want to die; it scares him.

A forced sigh slips as Simon stares over the room, glancing over the long-abandoned table laid with refuse from whomever had left it behind. Even though he knows the pump below is still wheezing, he cannot hear it – made silent for whatever reason is gargling in his head. He can barely hear it through the rumbles in his feet, the pulsates in his hands as they graze over the table, picking and playing with an abandoned can. Index flicks it between the grounded rumbles, unable to hear the usual sharp tink as an air bubble crawls through his throat.

His esophagus stammers.

The aluminum can clambers to the ground as a hand tries to grope at the junction of helmet and body, straining to catch the pain bubbling up the throat of his pillaged body.

But he can’t reach – metal plates holding his head in place as speakers screech.

They mimic the coughs as his body strains against the choking sensation.

And all he can do is ball his fists, bent over the large table as water sloshes deep within his gut. Simon can feel it slowly crawling its way up his dead throat, sticking within his larynx as fingers coil.

Just waiting.

Choking on the air inside his throat filled with water.

Simon hates waiting.

He hates the guttural spasms as his suited body trembles, aching from all the painful coughs as he tries to concentrate on something else, on how to get the water out of his systems – would the structure gel embedded within him be any help at all? It had attached the hand now latching around his stomach, as his vocals groan, doubled over and resting the globed helm against the table. Coughing, gagging, slowly feeling the air bubble crawl over flesh and sticking to his mechanical skull.

Through the gaze of electronic eyes he can see the gas slump over his optics, the red glow reflecting off the edges of the air pocket. The depths inside his thoughts rattle, begging to tear himself away from them as his head taps once. Twice. Rolling his helm to dislodge the pocket to stare off to the open door of the single stall bathroom – left open long since his departure to the launcher. He mulls over the thought of spilling his head, letting the fluid drain from the unseen disruption in the suit’s extensive seal.

Untwisting his head seems the possibility, the easiest route to dislodge the water caught in his head and throat. But, it’s been so long since he twisted the helmet into place, strapping a nodule into the body he stolen… back in Omnicron…

In Omnicron…

The other Simon. The Simon still at Omnicron, the one that made it through from the beginning of this existential nightmare, found Catherine, scrapped his way to Omnicron… He forgot all about him as he wallowed on his own survival.

As his stomach clenches for another upcoming cough he holds his head, grasping the smooth metal fixtures as his head rolls – rocking left and right. He can’t remember. Did he drain his batteries? It’s been so long – all he can remember is pressing a screen prompt and walking away with Catherine in the omnitool. Was he still awake? What happened to him?

What the hell has he let happen?

He slogs to his feet, stumbling as another cough surges through his aching body, fingers scratching at the top span of the chair he drags along for stability. It’s a cluster of muted sounds as he fumbles, hand finding fixated on the open doorway. Another choking hits, doubling over as far as his metal carapace withstands, palm clenching as he lunges towards the sink.

Thoughts run neutral as they try to find spots beneath the straps of the helmet, structure gel creaking as metal digits dig as the choking erupts again. Simon can barely see, leaning with the sink wedged between his legs and gut, helm pressed against where a mirror once resided. They dig against the binding material, goo running dislodged and sticking as the structure gel yields beneath frantic grasp. They alternate between the scratching and the head grasping, m uscles aching as Simon tries to yank the helmet rounded to the right, towards the left, trying to free the phantom noose he feels tighten in a useless throat.

He doesn’t need air. He doesn’t need air. Why is he choking. Why is his body choking?

They’re thoughts unanswered as he forces the globe from his head, tearing the structure gel in his frantic efforts to drain the water from his skull – from the helmet that crashes to the floor by his feet.

Water pours down the sink drain as his speakers make coughs.

Fragments of his throat oozing blood from the forceful removal of his ‘head’. But at least his body can breathe, breathe into dead lungs as the lights of his optics barely light the porcelain of the sink his hands grip. Their grip is firm, holding as coughs force liquid through his aching throat, pouring down the drain as he leans. It leads him queasy, recoiling back to sit on the toilet as feet kick the helmet out of the way.

Unable to rest his small mechanical head against his arms, he just holds himself propped against the wall, leaning over as he coughs the last ocean water from his aching lungs. They sting, but he can get over the pain carved into his chest.

But the sounds as his receptors start to work again?

It makes him freeze, trying to restrain the coughing sounds.

Someone is in the residential area with him – no, two people, two voices crying out, begging, pleading for them to be killed. Both voices made flesh and electronic, one closer than the other. Simon doesn’t dare to move, even as his body shakes with coughs, interrupted by the soft sounding cries. How long have they been screaming? He can hear them hoarse, unable to react to each other, solemn in their areas.

Simon can only wait for the pain to delude from his gut and chest, but with his helmet off he’s vulnerable – electronic brain left exposed to the elements around him. If one of them got up, they could end him now, finish up any attempt he made at getting to the climber. Everything left for naught, the last sensible person unaffected by the WAU.

Even as his body aches he twists his head back into place, forcing the fasteners through torn structure gel. Even as his legs feel like jelly – wobbling through the guttural pain and the pain around his neck – he forces himself out of the bathroom, fist balling against the door frame as he looks out in the central room.

There’s no one there.

Down the way he’s able to see into one of the rooms, where a body is shuttering, crumpled to the floor and grasping at a bloody blanket. A bobble head full of pinpoint lights illuminates as the body screams, coiled back against the bed and screaming near mute. The voice is hoarse, straining unending. Beneath them blood lies pooled – and across from them is a bloody hand scratched and rend by callous claws.

“Please…” the body wails beneath the screams of another, “please wake up,” it gargles, their head made of WAU lights.

The pain in his gut doubles – one of them was still alive?


	17. Salvation with hammer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

That’s right.

Simon can barely remember it in the turmoil of his sporadic thoughts. Catherine’s crew left her body at the Omega Space Gun – at PHI – while they came back to wait out the storming currents that threatened to make their entire struggle for naught. Catherine adamant on proceeding, a wrench contacting skull in the middle of a mild tussle, bleeding on the floor with a gapping hole, listening as her coworkers berated another in the last seconds of her Black Box. They returned here just to die – festering in their own comforts with the malignant draw of death and the WAU corrupting their flesh. Bodies contorted to only one functions, turned into senseless machines only meant to stay alive.

He’s seen it countless times, minds uprooted from reality, left to dawdle dazed and confused. A consciousness hidden by a drive to just keep breathing – no matter if the body has fallen into ruin.

It’s not a way to live, his thoughts grimace, watching the WAU corruption grasp at the shredded hand, gently pulling it as it dangles connected by a length of flesh.

“Don’T LEAVE mE,” the bobble-headed amalgamation wails, making the other scream snaps shut. Frail, skeletal arms coated with WAU chitin digging into the limp limb, slumping backwards. The arm dangles grotesque in bloody claws, laid against their bulbous head and their sheet covered shoulder. “Please, wake up,” it sobs again, body rocking in the pool of blood.

Stunned silent, Simon can only watch as the WAU creature reaches onto the bed, kneeling crouched and cooing voice soft.

The touches are anything but soft.

Hard chitin creaks as they stroke the obscured body, lying the limb back into place senselessly, crooked, as though it had just slid off the cot and they were only settling it into place. Words are spoken soft, comforting; almost tender as gore soaks their claws. Squishing in the bloody organ within a shattered shell.

His dead throat swallows; it forces down the trembling in his gut.

Simon has to know – must know – to find out if they’re one of the lucky ones – if they’re hostile or sedated. Were they moving in repetition loops made by their shuttering black box? If they’ve been made mindless… it’d be the only reason for them to act like this; the last he saw they were recoiling under the sheets, trying to hide even though their bulbous scalp of WAU lights peered out from beneath the sheet held against their shivering body. When did they move – was it when the WAU’s lights flickered out, weren’t they connected to WAU as the poison coursed through its electric veins?

His motions are slow, weight rocking into each heavy step as he crosses to the drooping backpack, reaching for the stained hammer.

It’s for defense, he lies to himself, if they’ve been driven mad.

Motions remain slow as he creeps in the direction of the far room, careful as he passes the door where another screams – formed intelligible sentences; voice scrambled as they ask if anyone is there, pleading to know whom is there, for them to say what happened intermittent with cries for their long dead son. Even as it scrapes his resolve, his concentration, Simon forces it to become ignored, focus retrained to the wailing WAU creature knelt beside the hollowed shell that once was human – once cocooned in a technological shell and their innards spewed around the room as confetti.

Hesitation. A hand hovers near.

“H-hey,” his voice shakes, “can you heAR me?” Speakers begin to creak, exposing his fragile nerves as the amalgamation of flesh and machine repeats is prior notions, coiling back and sobbing mechanical. Unseen verbal organs creak as they wail hoarse. Their skin cracked and peeling, sores of erupting tubes callousing the skin as they link external. Simon doesn’t want to touch them – afraid of the rending claws.

And yet, he forces himself to. It’s all he’s been doing since the ARK was launched.

“M-my name is Simon. I’m from ToRONTo, can you hHEAR me?” Voice crackles uncertain, barely restrained as his large fingers barely touch the shivering shoulder as they continue to wail, plea; the pinpoint spots in their bulbous head flickering sporadic. And he watches as the pattern begins anew, slim fingers grasping at cold skin, a plea to wake despondent to Simon’s curious query. His grip holds firm, the WAU creature tries to shake it off, a hand fixing at the metal wrist and strains.

The grip relents, Simon’s fingers releasing the boney shoulder as the hand grasps, pulls, digs in the claws as a stereo screeches. WAU lights surge bright as motions are made quick, digging up the metal limb and digits scratching at the connective tubing – rending structure gel seals. A sharp cry runs through Simon’s speakers, warping as he stumbles backwards with the WAU creature clinging to his arm. Metal strikes the illuminated nodes, shredding shrieks as the bulbous head sways and rolls floppy. Unconcentrated, unseeing, their hands digging into flesh beneath the structure gel seal. “GeT Off me!” His speakers squawk, faking guttural as his fist strikes again, bursting the pustule head to ooze black and red.

Claws relent as Simon stumbles, tripping and swinging the hammer blind in unfocused sight.

Hands falter in their grasp, crumbling as a gargle surges from the WAU body in whimpers and heavy whine. “I’m sorry,” it’s hidden voice cries. “Don’T LEAVe me.”

Audio repeats as they reach across the metal floor as Simon scrambles back to his feet – hammer held firm.

Aching lungs cough as he watches the lights in the body become blurred, twinkling inconsistent as it lulls in the repetition. Fingers cling against the air, lied on their nude stomach, contorted body held exposed with black tubes erupted from their pale skin. They snake around into skin hardened chitin in their waist, legs split muscle to muscle in coarse tubing, a tussle of mismanaged deformations held as a faux set of necrosis legs. At a semblance of knees they are tied and rest bound, the region marred by dried structure gel that cracks under the thrash of kicking limb – barely moving as the nerve have been long made numb and dead.

At the end of their spine, where their pelvis bones begin to jut grotesque, lies a port decayed and sticking with rotting blood and structure gel.

Disconnected. The WAU wanted them to still live.

Simon finds himself disgusted.

A fate not their own was decided in the AI’s dying process, left to huddle and ache – the WAU was driven to keep the lingering populous alive after all – what difference would it make if they were going to die connected to the WAU or through eventual starvation?

On the floor, the creature continues to shutter, trembling hands petting over their crushed features, crying and whining as they take stock of the injury inflicted by the bloody hammer still held outstretched – waiting for another attack. But, as Simon watches, the machine-made creature withdraws, voice repeating over and over in childish pleas. “I’m soRRy,” it cries hoarse, recoiling, curling, trying to make itself small and meager as its WAU lights bleed into white. “I’M Sorry,” it whines, speakers peaking and distorting – voice enhanced by the lights decorating their broken chitin scalp.

Inside the oozing wound is nothing but winds of wires, crawling and oozing, busted fluid oozing from dangling lights.

Simon hates the feeling in his chest.

They attacked him, he had every right to…

“I’Msorry.I’msorry.I’mSORRY,” bleeds through their voice, an error in their busted black box. Simon can hear it in his decrepit bones, in his gut, in his mind. They’re still alive in there; helpless, weak, confused with blackened sight. They can’t see.

They can’t see.

A huff coughs through Simon’s speakers, a tremble as he stares down at the hammer and his bloody hands. He struck them. He struck them. It grips in his throat; he hit someone with a hammer. A murderer. A murderer. Anyone would die from something like that – Catherine died by a blow with a wrench – strength enhanced by the suit. Busting bone wide and exposing the brain to stale air.

Fists grip as he tussles with his thoughts, pressing against his thigh, looking away towards the hallway where the other WAU creature resided – the one that chased him. The one made mindless.

This one isn’t mindless. They don’t deserve this hell. Helpless, like a child, confused, and unassuming. They don’t deserve this; they’ve suffered enough at the hands of the WAU.

Body contorted, bones and flesh replaced by wires and tubes, nerves forced electric.

Just to keep them alive.

It was WAU’s programming.

It was only doing what it was meant to do.

His hand fists against his side, grip on the hammer tightens, staring at the cries of the victim to the WAU.

They don’t deserve this.

But he has to try, right?

Speakers crackle, “my name… is Simon.”

One more time.

“I came… from Toronto.”

They’re still crying.

“Can… you hear me?”

Nothing.

Stunning silence as a ball tosses in Simon’s chest. To let them keep living this hell…

Or save them.

“Don’t leAVE ME,” they cry, one last time.

“I’m sorry,” Simon aches, and strikes.


	18. Broken Playback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

It hurts as he stares down at the mush of electronics and flesh, a grotesque collage made of outstretching limbs lying half curled against the mark of heavy steps. Structure gel seeps through the gore of a crushed cranium, illing Simon’s steps as he crumbles backwards staring silent. They’re noisy as sticking red follows him as his gut tumbles with empty sick, hand letting the hammer slip through his fingers as his mind runs numb. Dead. They’re dead. He killed them. But that was the only way, right? To grant them this mercy?

Inside his thoughts he can hear their looping coughing gag in a guttural soundbite as the WAU transformed their body to match its own design around the recording device. All for the sake of their continued survival, the continued function of respiration and consciousness despite whines of hunger. It’s only his thoughts, not their black box, he draws consciences, staring at their exposed black box. He hasn’t tapped into it, to touch it.

And honestly, he recoils at the thought.

Could’ve they have been conscious the entire time? Was their mind trapped in there thinking among an endless void, or where they long gone, mind gone blank?

A mild sense of clenching jaws dance among the tightening in Simon’s chest, forcing himself to look away from the corpse he made, from where his boots imprint gore into the floor, as flies buzz around the grotesque waste of a bulbous head. His gut wretches, digits digging into the table as he shoves a chair with his thigh. It tumbles beside him as a fist swipes across the surface, faltering into holding his own bulbous head, fingers pressing on metal and tempered glass, staring into shadows, mechanical sight failing into erratic imagery.

He’s killed someone, he killed someone.

But he needed to do it, he couldn’t let them suffer like that.

But it doesn’t justify him.

Simon’s body trembles as he courses through the thought of listening to their black box, to listen to their last moments, to potentially hear his voice on their black box. It’s solidify them as still partially sentient without sight, that they were thinking. Or would their body being overtaken by WAU cause the recorder to become faulty – maybe there was nothing there at all? The only way to be sure was to check it, but, all he can manage is pull his head up among his grasping palms, tilting it in the direction of the made silent corpse.

He can’t, as his head is squeezed between his shoulders, hands trailing as his thoughts race with nausea. He wants to know, but his gut is telling him no, his chest is telling him no, his electronic brain is telling him NO. And he peels himself from the table, but only partly as his sight falls back to the black gore spread along the floor – the star burst of blood drawing his crimson sight. A head once covered in WAU nodes oozes, lights sparkling among the spilt gore and wandering flies. 

They’re staring; and his stomach knots.

They’re staring at him.

They’re judging him.

Piece by piece Simon eases himself towards the sprawled and tangled remains; in withdrawal of his limbs, in easing himself away from the table, in his inching steps before he crumples down onto his knees. Blood seeps against the metal and the joints as he forces himself to settle still, hands relenting to clutch his own; wallowing in the uncertainty of what he may hear. But, despite it, he wills himself to reach out to where the bulbous head once cradled.

His mind transcends the distance as his process take the last moments out of the black box, clawing against logic circuits as a mocking headache that makes him recoil. Sounds run muffled as he keeps his palm outstretched, listening to the distortion in the guttural static of the corpse’s flesh. There is no voices, only wheezing feedback rampant with digital errors, skipping and jolting between fast forward and stilled playback. Nothing to gleam from it, the black box too damaged to recall properly inside his head.

But at least he does not hear his voice.

Simon’s shoulders droop as he releases a senseless exhale, a mere soundbite as tension dissolves from his nerves. His head tilts as his lenses shutter closed, hand retreating from the corpse to leave them in peace. Sinking himself among the silence, wallowing himself in TAU’s dead air and the buzzing of flies.

It only lasts for a moment, until his mental recall relapses to make him remember.

There was someone else here among the depths, in the rooms surrounding the central hall in where he sits. Someone that cried for their son, apologies running rampant as metal tainted fingers clutch a crumpled photograph.

He remembers prying it from the shuttering body, quivering and prone, metal made flesh gleaming in the low light as he stares at the worn image of a smiling son. The WAU tainted victim only lied as Simon stood over him, a balling curling in his gut as conversations halt – they are listening, they’re in pain. Just like the rest taken by WAU’s overbearing attempts at keeping them alive.

He heard them screaming.

Simon scrambles to his feet, clutching the hammer as he stumbles back against the table.

No one is there but him.

He forces his hammering heart back down his throat, muscles cramping from the sudden tensity boiling through his nerves. His back lies against one of the chairs, throwing his arm down between his knelt legs in fatigue. It was a figment of his panic, a false sense of reality he reminds himself as his head knocks back against the table’s edge with a clunk. He heard them screaming before, but it was not now, he’s okay.

He’s okay for now.

But they’re still here, aren’t they?

He can hear them breathing.

The blind panic makes him choke on his nauseous breath, a feeling Simon tries to bite back as the hammer drops back to the floor, his head held in his hands. “Breathe. Simon,” he tries to remind himself despite the uselessness. He knows he doesn’t need to breathe; his body is a puppetry.

But it does make him feel better, it makes him feel more alive if he’s breathing. That he’s something more than a corpse and a living suit made of circuits and structure gel. That even though he feels like a living person he’s nothing but an amalgamation, a nothing, a dead man walking and …

He’s getting existential again…

A sigh breathes through his speakers as he pulls himself back from the brink.

He can’t let himself fall apart again. Not now.

Hands pull against each other as he tries to think, think of something else, bide his time until the thumping in his chest dissolves, that the tightening in his throat to unwind around his breathing stump. There’s gotta be something he can do to calm down, but he can’t think of the what, or the how, or anything besides balling stress. Exhausted. But he needs to keep moving. But what if the person was still alive, would they want to talk? Would that make it easier to settle his nerves? He’s not talked to someone in such a long time; talked to someone that could actually respond back. He had Catherine, she’s stick in a brick…

Simon’s arms coil his knees together, drawing his head against them the best he can manage.

Exhaustion… he just wants to rest.

But he also wants to make his way to the climber; his head bumping behind him on the table.

He still has the long walk through the abyss.

Simon scales himself back to his feet, leaning on the table with the hammer clenched in his hand.

If they’re dead, he won’t be able to talk to them. If they’re alive… what will he do?

Simon doesn’t know the answer as he pushes himself into the side room, staring over the prone shape of the lone survivor in TAU. 

And they’re staring back. “Who… are you?”

If he had eyes, Simon wonders, would he be crying? “I’m Simon Jarrett… I’m from Toronto.”


	19. Nicolai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon can only watch as the prone body paws at the bedsheets, straining in stiffened muscle and chitin flesh, blood oozing from the WAU tubes that dig through his wheezing chest, crawling through his structure gel tainted flesh and torn skin. Their sight is forced forward, their head barely craned over, settling Simon in peripheral sight – eyes forced wide and dry. As they breath neither their mouth or nose move, and the tubes rattle in their steed. Silence carries between them; breathing rattling with organic wheezes and another sounding false – staring each other down. The body lying on the bed tries to drag the photograph close, straining fingers turned into WAU spires. Simon nudges the photograph into his hand, watching it feebly paw. “Thank you,” they breathe; fingers caress his son’s face, their face emotionless.

“Who… what is your name?” Simon chokes, easing himself back onto the opposing cot, pushing the covered corpse back and against the wall. Their hand holding Catherine’s image thumps his thigh.

“Ivashkin, Nicolai,” they wheeze, letting their head fall back to the bed. “You from…Omicron?”

“No,” Simon whispers, fumbling with his fingers, setting the hammer down at his side. “I came straight from Toronto to here. The brain scans; Catherine’s project, somehow, I got put into a suit in Upsilon, and I started… making my way somewhere. I was lost, no one was around. Well, that’s a lie, I found some one but… they were a robot. They didn’t think they were, but they were, and they were scared. And I was scared. There was this machine and… I’m rambling aren’t I?”

“Catherine…” there’s barely a motion in Nicolai’s worn body, breathing through the growths that tore his skin apart, erupting through his chest and skull. “She’s…”

Simon sits in silence, waiting for Nicolai to continue. Yet, all there is from the man is more pained breathing, wheezing cries of Alexei – pawing the picture of his son with still fingers. He’s not in the shape to talk… he’s dying too.

“We got the ARK launched,” Simon sighs. “Me and Catherine … her digital version. She’s still dead in the loading bay,” and a hand roams back over his helmet, feeling the hole in his own, “still has a hole in her head…” He bites back the confession she’s not how the ARK crew left her – that she’s missing her arm and leg, that he’s taken them to help him along the way. Hell, that it was Catherine’s arm that plucks her photo from the dead man’s grip behind him.

“Catherine… got what… she wanted,” Nicolai sighs in audio format, his mouth unmoving as Simon stares. “What happened… to Omicron?”

“They’re dead,” Simon blunts, thumbing against the photograph. “WAU blew their heads up with the black boxes. They didn’t get any warning about the WAU… after they pulled in Ross. It was too late for them.”

Again, Nicolai’s head rests back against the sheet, barely curling back into a fetal ball as he stares wide eyed at the photograph, thinking of his son. “Earlier… was that you?”

He moves to speak but… stops. Was he referring to a bit ago, a few hours ago? Simon sighs, fingering over the image fragment of Catherine’s living face. “Yeah… I… put your coworker to rest, and I walked through here earlier… a few hours ago maybe. I don’t know how long it’s been since the ARK was launched – if I’m perfectly honest.” His laughter is dry, crude. “But I poisoned the WAU, almost got killed by it, and that fucking worm. I came from Toronto straight here; almost killed multiple times before I wandered down here, only guided by Catherine yelling at me… that I’m an idiot for not understanding what’s right in front of me.” He stares down at the image of Catherine again, thumb brushing over the torn fragment. “And now? I don’t know what to do… besides going back to the climber. Going back through the abyss.”

Nicolai is unresponsive as his dry eyes stare, his head turned against the sheet. “Alexei,” his breathing wheezes, tubes ‘breathing’ through his flesh and drawing blood. Simon forces himself silent as his gaze turns back to the photograph between his fingers.

“You knew her, Nicolai,” his voice draws quiet, his empty lungs exhale. “What would Catherine do…?”

A period of silence passes between them – not that Simon minds. There’s another person in the room, even if they’ve been twisted by the WAU, their eyes forced open unending. “She’d die,” Nicolai sighs, weak fingers gripping his son’s photograph. “So would I…my son… I can’t – remember him!”

Simon is motionless, still as Nicolai falls into screams. He can’t remember his son; the only things he can recall is his face, his smile, his name, pawing against the photograph as he falters into rambling. Nicolai’s words are edged with a metallic grind as his breathing tubes rattle in agitation, rage, remorse. Unbridled angst as all he can do is lie and cry and barely move in his deceased coil. His nerves barely function, bodily twitches brought on by the WAU’s tubing and kept in a motionless curl. He can’t move at all, he can do nothing but hurl insults at Simon; at least Simon can move.

A façade of teeth bite at the sense of a nonexistent mouth within Simon’s senses, trembling under the barrage of screams from Nicolai. In one hand he grips the hammer he salvaged, forcing it against his side as he lets other continue even as the words hurt. He’s right, it might just be better to die; and in his opinion that’s what Catherine might’ve thought as well.

All around them is nothing but death and decay. The WAU is dead, but so is human kind. The last bastion of humanity sings among the stars now, while they’re stuck on a ravaged earth. The surface is dead, and so is PATHOS-II, and all of the residences. There’s nothing to work towards, Nicolai relents, that everything that could be tried was tried and failed. There was no reason for living anymore, that he’d be better off dead instead of lying in a messy cot.

To Simon, his words sting; everything he’s tried is useless, that there is nothing waiting for him in Omicron.

And, deep down, Simon knows. But, is it really all that bad to at least try?

It was determination that got him out of the pilot seat, it was what got him back into PHI, it was the dive that guided him back to TAU and to where he’s sitting. Maybe, his mind drives into darkness, his only use now is to free the survivors from the infested AI’s remains.

Simon doubles over as he holds his helmet, staring down at the ground. “I’m still going to go back to the climber… if its worthless or not. At least I could get some closure, you know?” He whispers.

Only Nicolai’s breathing tubes wheeze as their conversation cuts out, his fingers clutching onto the photograph. The uncomfortable stillness drives Simon uncomfortable; staring down at an unmoving face, dry eyes staring down into the sheets. Around them Simon can hear the currents crawl along the hull, the creaking of rusted joints, the wear of extensive disrepair. He can’t remember how long it would’ve been since the last maintenance check – how much longer would the hull hold?

“Simon, was it?” Nicolai wheezes, barely turning his head to meet Simon’s stare. The answer is silent, a slow nod. “Can you… please… kill me?”

Simon’s hands clutch around the hammer as his sight turns back to the floor.

It was an inevitable query. And it would not be the first time.

“Sure,” is his only reply, placing down the hammer and Catherine’s photograph. “It’s for the better, I guess,” Simon sighs, his hands gently grasping the other’s cold metallic flesh and tubing, a body made limp with stiffened joints as he forces him to lay in reverse. Nicolai chokes as he struggles to hold onto Alexei’s photograph as he’s forced onto his back with stiffened arms, one held up high with the photograph slipping through his fingers. As Simon forces Nicolai’s WAU twisted body to lay flat the photograph slips through his fingers, drifting down, down out of his reach.

Simon returns it to his grasping hands, pressing them to cross against his chest – a placement where Alexei is held against where his heart once beat, staring up at the ceiling as his WAU twisted legs are tucked beneath the sheets. The pose leaves Nicolai’s throat exposed, the breathing tubes vulnerable as Simon turns away to exhale. Merely preparing himself.

His hands feel around Nicolai’s throat as the Russian says nothing, staring endlessly with dry, worn eyes.

And his hands squeeze around the breathing tubes, crushing windpipes as Simon forces his gaze away as beneath him Nicolai gasps, fingers curling around Alexei’s photograph.

There’s no fighting. There’s no struggle.

Just the snaps as the breathing tubes fracture, hissing air as he chokes the life out of Nicolai. The eventless succumbing into silence as the writhing tubes become limp, metal fingers feeling blood ooze and structure gel seep.

Simon holds himself there, sight turned away as he counts himself to one hundred.

At 70, his grip begins to wane. And at 89, he leans down into his cupped palms.

At 100, he finally lets go, and closes the door behind him.


	20. Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon crumbles into a chair, hands fisting against his helmet as his elbows dig into the table. Think of nothing, he drives himself to blank out, elbowing a can he viciously knocks away. Items scatter as he smacks the items out of his reach, fingers pressing the glass globe of his helmet as the rattling echoes through his thoughts. The struggling exhales, the hoarse wheezing, it haunts as he tries to make himself think of anything, of something that is only a fantasy, starving for something unreal as his hands stain the front of his own bulbous face.

His ‘face’, a mere helmet of metal and pressurizing glass. Over his sight black and red drip, screaming as hands curl into fists, knuckles pressing against his attempting forehead rub. They grind as his simmering panic drives him anxious; a fist slams into the table – drawn up, down, slamming and rolling as his head follows his other hand as it grips his glass helm.

In the back of his mind he tries to find solace in the bittering angst as he thrashes the table, denting the metal, punching it as he works out the frustration, driven by anxious paranoia that there is nothing for him, that he should’ve just ended himself back in PHI. Should’ve just taken the helmet off his head and torn his circuitry head right out of the stump neck as his body trembles – where his chest squeezes viciously, where he loses his breath once more to a senseless knotting in his throat. He needs to breath. He needs to breath.

But Simon doesn’t think he can trust himself; he can’t try anyone but himself, but he can’t trust himself to not cause more irreparable harm as he punches the table. It leaves a dent.

“Calm down,” Simon speaks, carrying a false comfort to bring himself out of his erratic state. It frustrates him, that he can’t stop his anger, that he can’t control himself as the anxiety boils over. “You’re okAY,” his voice glitches. Not again, he mentally whines, holding his helmet once more. His optics click close as his hands palm against his helmet. “CalmDOwn,” his auditory system peaks, and whispers, “Simon.”

He wishes it was that easy, to just cut off any emotion still storming through him as it storms through his nerves. But at least he can feel it exhaust itself, only feeling numb as earlier thoughts trace at his consciousness. That his only worth now was to clean up the mess that remains of PATHOS-II; that’s all that was left anymore, right?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t want to know.

Maybe there was some way to keep on living, he chuckles, knowingly lying to himself, that he very unlikely to find any other end compared to the one he has now set before him. It’s only delaying his end, in a way…

But he wants to have that choice of when.

Even then, what does he do now? He’s making this up as he goes – and he can’t just walk all the way to the climber.

“Think,simon,” he rattles, resting his head between his crossed forearms, the stained front of his helmet rubbing the remains of gore against the table. “Think.” He rambles internally as he tries to make sense of how to deal with the monster in the front half of TAU, how he’s going to manage making it through the abyss with nothing but items he’s salvaged here and here only. There’s the open dent in his head that made him queasy before – and it would tear him apart in the open ocean.

He saw the corpses littering the trail into TAU, the immense capacity of decompression to suck out all matter of gore from a human body; a fleshy soup made of organs and skin and crushed bone fragments. It’d be one of the first things to take care of, as well as making a weapon to defend himself. There was no way to get back to the airlock without WAU’s monster down there following him out into the abyss if he doesn’t incapacitate it in some manner.

Then there were the other monsters… the WAU twisted monstrosities shrouded in the darkness willing to drag him through the abyssal depths. He’d be helpless without anything, and, well, just as helpless with anything that can’t fend off the bulking fauna – but he’d at least feel better if he had something to defend himself in such an occurrence. Even if they still tore him into ribbons and shrapnel, at least he’d feel like there was a semblance of defense.

Simon looks out from between his settled palms, glancing over the empty chairs around him. If he can separate them, he might be able to make a tool to defend himself, but that’s if he can fasten multiple trunks together into a sturdy weapon. His palms press against his face again; useless. He brushes it aside, exhausted with the lingering pessimism. He can do this; he’s gotten himself out of the pilot seat, out of PHI, got himself through the tunnel blockage crawling on hands and knees. He can assuredly do this.

But before anything else, he needs to mend the hole in his head. And to do that, he needs to take it off again. Which he does without a tinge of internal conflict. Calmly he sets it out in front of him, inspecting the damage beneath the overhead light. It looks minimal as he palms it to rotate, a dented fissure sat jagged near the top. From beneath, as he holds it outwards, he can see the stammered opening bleed light. He sighs, turning its inside up into the light as he grasps the hammer once more. With the end of it he begins knocking the break back together, scrapping structure gel over the crack as he watches the inky matter fuse the break in place. To be sure of it, and to ease his anxious thoughts, he presses a piece of scrap metal down into it – where the structure gel fuses it into place.

“One thing down,” Simon sighs, pulling his globe back over his electronic brain, pressing the fasteners into place around his gasping throat. “Now,” he whispers to himself, looking over the chairs, “… how am I going to do this.”

He tries first with the one he had sat upon, wringing the metal welding with his suited grip, straining with the material with only a minimal success. He yanks, tugs, even begins to twist the material as he sat himself on the floor as standing lead him to nearly stumble as he lost his grip. At least the fall was shorter on the floor; but his audio yells as his hand slips again, straining to force the weld loose. For a moment he has an inkling of using the saw fragment – but what would that do? Just grind its teeth off and then what?

He curses internally as he palms for the hammer laid out on the table, scratching the claw end against the welded horizontal joint. It does give, a bit. And it’s enough to invigorate Simon’s hope that his plainly half-planned idea might be worth something!

Except that he’ll be doing the same repetition for hours, on multiple chairs by his assumption of how well his idea of a weapon will work.

“Catherine would have a lot better idea,” he grumbles, wiggling the half carved joint free. He admits, he could just use the hammer – hell, he could even just use the wrench that caved in Catherine’s skull. But that would be close-range. Simon has already had enough close encounters he wants to keep them out of arm’s reach. He breaks a set of leg joints off, hitting the still attached cushion in frustration. “Oh, Simon can handle himself surely, I’ll just give him half the information he needs and let him figure it out all on his own. As I forget to mention crucial things,” he mocks, tossing the set of chair legs off on the side as he works on the left. “I’m just stuck in a door opener, but I’m the brains so don’t need to do jack shit,” he grunts, straining against the chair leg, finding its well melded solder to target first.

Despite his mocking tone, he at least misses her company, and her cadence how she’d over explain to him. It made him feel like a child, sure, but at least some one had some idea what they were doing.

 

_“I didn’t lie! I can’t be responsible for your goddamn ignorance, you fucking-!” Silence_

_She’s gone._

 

Simon sighs, exerting force against the weakened joint. It grinds partially, still attached by the other soldering as he rotates the dismantled seat around between his legs. He tries his best not to look at the husk laid out nearby, forcing his attention down at the incremental progress he makes. He dwells upon how detailed she got when it came to the transfers – it was her project after all – and how he was just too stubborn to accept that he might’ve been the one to lose one of the earlier coin tosses. Did the Simon in Toronto find any enjoyment in his final days or was it just constant bed rest with a radio as his only company? What would’ve become of him if he was the one in the pilot seat on Omnicron, where would’ve he gone?

He cracks another leg band free of the seat, setting the crescent bent metal among the other as the remaining seat cushion is shoved towards the corpse. Twice more he does this, ending with six different bands of metal legs to mold into a weapon. He’s just not sure what shape he’ll end up with.

Forcing distraction from his consciousness, Simon toys with the metal, flexing and bending it to nearly coil around another, hammering segments flat as parts bend over one another. It’s form lumps as his fingers fumble, slipping as he strains to make it hold its shape; wacking himself in the helmet more times than he is willing to count. He grumbles, near hurling the bent metal across the room before settling with punching a discarded seat cushion. “You can do this, Simon,” he hisses, and fumbles as he tries to hold two bars with one hand – once more smacked in the face. “Fuck!”

He continues to fumble with the mess he made, wrestling with the metal before giving up for now.

Only to return soon after, maintenance zip ties dropped down at his thigh.

Aimed with better material to hold the metal together, he gets to work getting it all into shape, hammering out the cylindrical shapes to crumple against each other, parts biting down as he slowly morphs it into the shape of a crude curled staff, wedging a strut between the others to form an offensive edge. Eventually he runs out of the ties, muscles worn ragged as he tries to straighten out the material as he lies back against the table. He sighs as his head bumps the edge of the desk, shoving the mostly finished weapon off to the side as he stares at the door in front of him.

Exhausted, tired, Simon figures he needs some rest as his forearms ache, crossing them down over his lap as his optics drift closed.

Black blood running through water, a staggering cry, hands gripping for a sentimental brick as he’s pulled into the abyss. Jagged teeth tear through his diving suit, bursting metal into his pilfered body as he chokes. A hand caught between dangerous teeth.

Simon’s optics fall open again, curling into himself as he sighs. Just another nightmare.

Once more, he picks up the hammer, giving his crude defense a cruel jagged edge before he hoists himself up, looking it over one final time, testing the spiraled shaft for weakness. Whenever he finally feels confident about his DIY craftmanship, he throws his pack over his shoulder, starting down the hall towards the side of TAU leading to the climber, and where a WAU suit wanders dazed.


	21. Passive aggressive ill will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Metal clangs as Simon throws the make-shift axe onto the metal walkway above him, where it lands awkwardly and precarious over the hole. With the short ladder half crumpled by seismic activity, Simon has to find a way to get back up, far aware that it’s the only way out, the only way back to the opening into the open abyss as he pulls his bag from his back. In his hands, the pack is light even as the items inside clatter against another, a part of him worried about the omni tool before he can remind himself she’s in the front pouch, away from the tools in the large backwards compartment. He tries to sort out his aim as his grip shifts, the region partly blocked by his DIY weapon, but there should be enough space.

And he throws.

The bag rebounds off the tool, metal clanging as it shutters above him and the bag lands back on Simon, muffling his sensors with a brief startled cry. Hands grasp, stumbling to find hold of the fabric as it almost drops down in front of him. He grumbles as he collects it again, staring at the obstructing end of the twisted shaft. Altering his aim, towards the back area of the above room, he throws it again – and it settles with a softened clunk.

Now he just needs to get himself back up…

At the base he picks up the broken rungs, setting them off to the side so his steps aren’t awkward. And with it all off to the side, he holds up his hand, reaching for the lowest portion of the ladder, fingers barely grazing as he rises to the tip of his boot. No chance.

Briefly, he jumps, grasping the damaged portion before his weight pulls him back down; feet clunking on the floor once more. Simon’s sight narrows, and his empty chest breath as speakers sigh. Not tall enough.

Simon pulls the remaining chairs with him into the small hallway, stacking them one over another with the backboards facing the wall of crumbling WAU metal. There’s only so many chairs for him to pull from, as four backings and seats lie on the floor, slashed by the makeshift edge. And it tilts under his feet, having to stabilize himself against the jutting rocks wedged into the side walls. But, he’s at last able to reach the stable rung, pulling himself up as his feet stumble against the chair backing before finding ground as he makes himself over, shoving his makeshift weapon aside.

Collecting his things, Simon throws his backpack over his shoulder once more as he wanders the upper floors of TAU, retracing his steps to where the other ladder sits untouched by the WAU’s underground shifting. At the edge of the second ladder Simon stares down into the floor below, fists balling around the shaft of his weapon, coaxing himself calm as anxiety burns through his systems.

“It’s okay, Simon,” his voice declares; to him it sounds like its mimicking another’s. He ignores the inconsistency and drops himself into the dwellings of the WAU monster.

Outside his encased dome a fog permeates in the open distance, unwavering as he wanders through it, swatting at the air. It’s gas; where was it coming from?

As he walks through the locking segment his steps become slow and cautious, his false breath muting as he tunes himself to watch for the monster occupying a heavy diving suit. If he could take a beating, so could they, then how does he dispatch them? The anxiety washes over him again as he coaxes himself into a side room looking for the monster.

Nothing.

He forces himself to keep moving, holding the weapon outstretched, staring through the gaseous fog that clings in the air. In the next room, as he looks around the central exam table… he finds nothing.

And in the following room, nothing.

In the hallway, nothing.

It only leaves the front half, where the airlock door resides and an immobile robot.

Where else could it be?

He can hear breath wheeze down the halls as he makes his approach to the forward segment, where he wandered before freeing the WAU creature into the isolated segments. The fog runs thick around him as he edges towards the room across from the locking segment, the walls dripping with spilt fluid structure gel, dried and boiling. Gore is strung about as he moves towards the locked door, hearing bubbling barely scream, metal clawing on metal, a slight his of bubbling fluid.

It makes Simon pause; unable to see what’s beyond the door. Concerned about the noises permeating through the metal door.

But, what should he care? Why should he care?

It’s just a WAU creature.

Sound bangs from behind the door, a guttural screech as fluid slaps, boiling.

A scream that barely sounds human.

His hands grip around the twisted shaft of his weapon; what was he to do?

Without another thought he presses the open panel at the side of the door, feeling the warmth push through the protective metal of his suit as the gas overtakes the air around him. It lingers around him as he tries to make out the thrashing shape covered in rotting structure gel, splashing the room as it claws against the limp WAU structures jutting from the wall and ceiling, digging into it as it screams.

A leg lies boiling beside the door, metal clawed apart and severed.

All Simon can do is gawk, fingers tracing around the edge of his weapon, barely holding onto it as he stares at the effects of Ross’ work. The structure gel poison he delivered to the WAU.

It’s eating them from the inside.

His hand slams back on the door control, the one thing still holding the lingering power.

Hopefully, the climber will work.

Simon’s steps are heavy as he almost jogs down to the airlock, a hand catching onto the air lock door and yanking it. It doesn’t budge, and his digits working frantic before the safety lock releases, letting it creak as Simon’s body threatens to gag, slamming shut with a final tug.

He recoils against the wall, an arm wrapping around his stomach before he can throw the backpack down to the ground in front of him. Organs spasm against the nausea strangling through his captive body, struggling to hold himself together as former relief of having no sense of taste or smell is washed away. He may not have them, but his cortex remembers, and can piece it all together.

Even with the airlock door separating him from the bubbling screams, or the oppressive air filled with the gases of simmering structure gel, he can imagine it all as it permeates his thoughts. His fingers fumble with the backpack’s fabric, yanking the zipper on the front of the bag as he tries to force himself to settle, to ground himself back into his silent safety. He got past the WAU monster, he doesn’t have to worry about it, he mumbles in his electric brain as it stumbles into the anxiety and self-doubt once more. His speakers grumble as he tugs the front pouch open and his hand clamors for the omni-tool.

Simon cradles it between his palms as he shoves the backpack away, kicking it across the small room before balling up against the wall. His false breathing rings erratic in is aching lungs as it is drawn in sequence with his anxious nerve endings, a sensation made of his once again fragmenting sense of self.

The abyss is waiting for him; he can’t continue on like this.

Garbles of the writhing WAU monster fade from his thoughts, adamantly replaced with panicking uncertainty that his haphazard plan will go wrong; he could be dragged into the darkness, mangled as his brain is left screaming in the empty black, or that he wouldn’t be able to find his way through the darkness of the abyss, that he’ll be lost forever in the bottom of the ocean until his battery finally fizzles out. How long does he even have left? It’s a sorrow that bleeds through his nerves and circuits, his body coiling around the omni-tool.

He’s afraid.

He admits.

He’s afraid.

Afraid of what awaits him in the abyss; fear gripping him as he can only wallow in the overwhelming emotions that stammer through his brain and body. It’s all he can do, even though he just wants to go, just wants to escape from TAU. But he keeps himself coiled, holding himself captive as he knows – he can’t continue if his thoughts are irrational, feeling broken doesn’t keep him alive. He can’t stay alive if he doesn’t do so calmly, carefully.

“It’s okay, Simon,” his voice synthesizes, repeating. “It’s okay, Simon.” As though it was Catherine’s.

It repeats as his fingers trace around the edges of the sentimental brick, holding the mute door opener close as a sigh forces itself through his decrepit lungs. Though she might have seemed callous, uncaring to his anxiety, she was his only companion throughout the whole ordeal, with him every step of the way… even if time skips for her.

The coil goes lax, hands held at either side of the omni-tool.

What would she say if he did get to speak to her again?

Would she continue to berate him, following from where she was cut off as the power drifted from the Omega Space Gun chamber? What was she going to call him, a moron? He admits, she’d be right – chuckling as his head falls back against the wall, the omni-tool laid out on his lap. He never really listened to her, only followed her simple directions to where he needed to go. “I am an idiot,” he sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “And I want to say I’m sorry for being such an idiot,” his grip on the onmi-tool relaxes, letting it slip as his optics fall close.

“I guess the reason I want to get back to Omicron is to say sorry,” Simon sighs, “sorry for not asking enough, sorry for not paying attention… It was just too overwhelming. I didn’t do enough to wrap my head around it.” His speakers chuckle, “The faults on me, I could’ve understood it sooner, wouldn’t have yelled, but… there’s only so much a guy like me can take.” He realizes how fondly he’s speaking, talking to his sentimental brick.

Leaning back onto the wall again, he can only sigh.

He can’t really say he’s lost it; he lost it a long time ago.

Simon can’t pin point the exact moment that made him slip; as his sense of self peeled away throughout the entire excursion through Pathos-II. The isolation, the ringing silence that pierced through his anxious concentration as he worried about his surroundings, where he was going, how he was going to get there every step of the way, the uncertainty about the lifeless ocean around him. There was the WAU creatures, amalgamations of twisted bodies crafted only to extend the lifetime of the few remaining humans on earth, life revitalized with harsh melding technology.

Eyes pustulating as circuits rewire brain into data boards, flesh melted into metal. Minds lifted and replacing simplistic AI with the complexities of consciousness in newfound bodies.

People left abandoned and alone, immobile and confused.

Just like him.

A mind shoved into an empty body, loaded into an electric brain shunted into a corpse.

Simon never put much thought into it. Maybe he should have.

Maybe, he should not.

Once more his speakers sigh, glancing up over to where the backpack lies shoved. If he’s to pick himself up and head to the climber, and Omicron, he needs to be ready. Pulling the bag towards himself as he shifts Catherine onto his knee.

Around him he can hear the creaking of metal as the current picks up. It’s storming again out there in the depths. From the rear compartment he pulls out the tie-down straps, resting them at his side as he digs around, pressing items down into the bottom of the bag as tightly as he can pack them. The fragment of the circular saw blade fiddles against his fingers, pulling the obstructing item out and throwing it off to the side. It’s not needed anymore; he can go on without it.

With the items compressed into the bottom he begins to roll it, tightening it to coil into itself until its shape is made tubular. He secures it with the largest tie-down strap, looping the remaining end over the hanging and tightly wound straps until he’s able to secure it to his body. As he fixes it around himself, he knows this is not the intended use, but if it works, it works, and that’s good enough for him. As long as it won’t flutter in the current and hit him constantly in the back, it works for him.

With a sigh, he holds the omni-tool up to the console, waiting on the slow signal to reply. It’s a soft, dull beep, an emergency light flickering on as systems rumble around him. As he holds himself still as the water fills the airlock chamber, he shifts his focus down; holding the remaining tie-down straps.

Simon is motionless as water rushes around his shins, watching idly as the it swarms over his stomach and chest, awaiting it to rumble above before he settles himself back to the floor once more. His focus shifts back to the matter of securing the omni-tool, even though he could just carry it like before; though, that’s only if he wants to leave the make-shift weapon behind, be left a sitting duck to the creatures left in the WAU’s tainted abyss. The tie-down straps he fixes around his wrists are smaller than the bright red wrapping around his chest and shoulder, their colors diluted by salt water exposure.

He straps them around his forearm, pulled tight before he slowly coaxes them loose with his single free hand slowly and carefully. His mind drifts as he tinkers with the tightness of the straps, wedging the omni-tool between them as he tries to get it held in place. He lingers on what he may find in the depths, thinking back on the walk he took to find his way here. The lights that have flickered out, the ravenous creatures that wandered in swarms.

He pulls the ties into their final position, thoughts lingering to the why. There’s no way he could lose her if she was strapped to his wrist, a constant reminder as he doubles the length back over his forearm, fingers fiddling to tuck and knot the aged tight fabric beneath the other. He tests it with a tug, affirming his swallowed anxiety. The current won’t take her, the wrapping appearance similar to his plans of getting to the climber.

Haphazard, barely organized.

But it’s gotten him this far. He’s gotten himself out of the pilot seat; gotten himself through the constant mental breakdowns as he fought his way through PHI and worked his way into TAU. This is but just another sequence of events to work through, to pull himself through as he mentally prepares to step out into the uncaring darkness set before him. His hands grip the crude axe he had fashioned from the metal chairs, taking a few moments to breathe, to feel his seized lungs expand slowly and his speakers to sigh.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispers, pressing the door unlock.

And beyond it lies only silence, fragments of debris lingering in the light of his mounted flashlight.

He takes another needless breath, grounding himself inside his suited body.

And one step at a time, Simon begins to walk.


	22. A lack of self-preservation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon’s fingers fiddle with his make-shift defense as he wades through the darkness, tugging himself to linger around the immaculate light beacons directing him in the direction of the climber. They run dim in the rushing waters, worsened by the draining power to flicker and surge their red tinted bulbs. Motions are muffled, feet stepping carefully on the uneven ocean floor. Around him he can see that WAU cords have begun to crack, the long structures that one seemed to loomed flail in the currents that shove his bulking body.

The dark shapes waver in the dim backlighting of the external features of TAU like haunting tendrils. Gasses warm the air as he walks past the broken tubbing, bubbles surging around him as he moves from post to post, always keeping the location of the next in his flickering sights.

Leading him down the rows of dimming red, through the darken expanse lingering over him as an oppressive emotional blanket.

A sudden swell knocks him away from the next dimming post, throwing him against a rocky outcrop with a sharp shout.

Hands grasp around himself and his defense, holding the omni-tool buried against his chest as he waits out the surge, listening to the water rushing past his head and the rocks holding him stable. Warmth pushes pass his heat sensors, forcing him to look ahead instead of down, sorrow sinking into his gut for what he may see.

There’s nothing but the oppressive ocean; no sharp teeth, no bauble to taunt him with false security.

He does, at least, hopes there will be neither on his journey back. His fists curl.

As the sudden pressure fades he shrugs himself back into walking, looking out into the darkness forcing himself to breath out the anxious static. They run nervous as he walks into an empty expanse, void of features as he remembers the half-faced fish, an angler snarling with a human face piercing out and in-conscious. It’s human eyes untrained, unfocused as sharp teeth follow him into the glowsticked cavern across the way – where he wandered after the WAU worm took out his highlighting guide.

Wrists flex as he glances around himself, on the lookout for the angler that threatened him before, feet turning him front to back as he surveys around himself in anxious anticipation. He knows it’s out there, wandering and waiting. He shuffles as he keeps a path from pole to pole, working his way back to the closed cave system. He wonders if the chemicals are still fuming, keeping them still useful – hopeful that he can use them on the way along the dim path.

Out of the corner of his vision he spots it, turning quickly, arms outstretched.

It’s not swimming. It’s dead.

A large gash mars its side as he approaches it, gore boiling between bones and accumulated metal parts. The bauble waves limply in the idle ocean pace, its jaws wide and unassuming. It wasn’t bitten; a part of it had exploded. WAU barbs surge within its carcass, gasses billowing up through its remains.

Simon flinches, but keeps moving. Eyeing around for a swarm of aggressive small fry.

“How does that even happen,” he muses, wading himself through the darkness as he strains to find the light of the glowsticks.

“No idea,” his speakers squeak, a sound muffled but comforting.

He holds himself hunkered as he browses the rock face for the cave, following a trailing hoard of sea spiders to the dimly green opening. They cluster around the glowsticks, trying to huddle close until he brushes them aside to collect it.

“Where did you get the structure gel,” continues as Simon’s senses run mute. Muffled as he watches the sea spiders scuttle around him, stumbling over one another to flee the rumbling heavy footsteps.

“It was Ross’ idea,” he mumbles, “his poisoned structure gel, I have no idea how it works.” Fingers fiddle with the glow stick as he wanders over the next, plucking the subsequent one from the troves of small spindly legs. His speakers gurgle, a disgruntled grunt as the creatures swarm past him and into the encompassing darkness. “And I guess he was right… but it’s a horrid way to go. Boiling from the inside…”

Simon huddles the glow sticks close to his chest in one hand, the other clinging to the crafted weapon and fighting to get it through the warping tunnel path. Ends catch against the stone, hitching him to stop every few steps to thrust it forward and between his thighs to guide it. It’s a burden, fighting to keep control of the stave.

At a small opening he holds it down, letting the glow sticks spill out onto the stone and drift in the mild current twisting through the tunnel. Hands try to bend the long end short, grunting as he strains to twist the metal with suit strength alone; it’s not enough, and he drops the backpack against his side. Simon’s speakers squeak to life as he fumbles with the tick tie-down strap, hitching it around his thigh and the harness armholes. “It’s either that or let the WAU live, following its design to keep the crew of Pathos-II alive no matter the cost,” it barely sounds like Ross, a mimicry that makes Simon shake his head as he yanks the rear pack open.

Fingers fumble with the blood soaked hammer, nestling it between his thighs as he draws the backpack snug again, letting it fumble against his side. “There’s no point to keep on living if you can’t move,” he mumbles, pinning the weapon against the stone as he runs the hammer’s head over the metal, figuring where he should strike. “What’s a life worth living if you have no choice in it?” His speakers sigh, holding the weapon down as he aims the hammer – and it rebounds, its impact nullified by the ocean depths. Simon grunts, hitting it once again – aiming again… he stops.

He wenches the backpack over his lap, digging out the wrench.

The weapon fumbles pinned to the ground with one knee. In one hand he holds the bloody wrench against the metal wrap, in the other is the hammer. Simon gets to work, striking the metal slowly thinner, tinkering with it as his thoughts reserve to blanks once again.

His focus intent on the item before him, his speaker mumbles unintellitable, a background noise as he feels the impact reverberate through his limbs in each clash of metal, wrench, and hammer. The work is as slow as when he started making it, taking short breaks to test the slowly forming bend, tilting it to at first curl instead of breaking right through.

“Simon,” shudders through his speakers, causing him to jump.

There’s no one there, but his vision runs through static, muffled and jumbled as though Ross’s figment flashed by.

But he was dead, right?

His hands tremble as he tries to hold himself back to the task at hand.

“Simon,” gasps through his speakers; his hands ball against the tools. “The cutter.” And the figment flutters out of his sight again. Simon holds himself still, forcing himself to breath for the sensation alone. His peerless eyes stare at a cave wall as mumbles bubble through his speakers – words of his own control.

“It’s nothING,” his voice quivers, wincing as he hears the squeak in his audio. The anxiety again, but at least he’s safe here in the cave. At least he’s made it this far.

“Simon,” the voice surges through his speakers – his own voice, “the cutter,” it hisses.

He grasps inside the backpack, fingers fumbling over the bulky shape of the twinning cutters inside. That’s right, he grabbed two cutters from PHI before he left, one of them heavy and thick. Simon is quick to yank it out, staring at it beneath the glow of his flashlight helm. Its broad jaws chiseled into intersecting bits, not sharp, but dense enough to bite into the metal holdings. It’ll do just nicely for the job.

As he glances around, he catches sight of two spots of red staring him down.

It flickers out of his sights, a glitch in his cortex optics, an illusion.

Simon keeps to his silence as it swarms through him, focusing back on the weapon’s shaft. His mind buzzes with confusion and frustration – visual hallucinations ticked again on his instability.

He needs to keep moving.

The jaws of the cutter wedges through the thinning pieces of metal, narrowing them down little by little, muscles straining and screaming as he forces himself to keep his concentration. His breaks are short as he finds himself closer to finishing the adjustments, the suit’s enhancing strength taking care of the final twists that breaks off the unwanted section. Simon lets them scatter on the ocean floor as he strikes the now sharpened end flat, trying to force it curled before striking the metal back inwards.

Holding out in front of him, his speakers squeak, “there we go,” sighs.

As he shambles the items back into his backpack, Simon begins to recollect himself, forcing his optics close as his senseless breaths begin anew. Air in, air out, he can barely feel the shifting from his electric brain as he draws the backpack against his chest, wrapping it again end over end to draw it back into the snug wrap against his back. With it set, he holds a hand over the quiet omni-tool.

He lets it linger for a moment, data soaring through his systems in thought.

“I’ll get us back to Omicron,” he whispers, grabbing the glowsticks as he shuffles to stand.

Simon wanders through the rest of the cave with the weapon held firmly against his chest, short enough that he can keep it from obstructing through the tight corners he needs to make. At the end lies the ocean once more; peering endless without a spot of light in sight. The bulbs in this section, broken, where he needs to recycle the fading glowsticks.

He huddles them in his arms, sticking a pair down in the soft sediment beneath his feet. It’s a start.

Slowly, little by little, he finds his way through the darkness, circling back to the ones marking his prior location when his initial searches are unsuccessful, leaving glowsticks to track his short trails from post to post. He’s tucked the makeshift weapon behind his shoulder, his focus intent on the task of finding his way back to the midway station, where the robot tried to guide him through the darkness before the WAU’s monster took it away and left him groping in the dark.

As he collects a set of glowsticks, he sighs, staring down at the dimming pipe clustering in his arms. One of them has already begun to flicker out, crooking it into the hinged sail of the guiding light. “Almost there,” a voice reminds him, comforting, putting his mind at ease even as his vision shutters into hallucinations.

It’s becoming more frequent, catching glimpses of creatures that aren’t there, spots of WAU lights hovering near the locations of dead beacons. He’s not complaining, but the shape of them… causes him concern, hallucinating his own broken shape, moving himself further into the depth with its unceasing guidance. It dwells him into questions; why is he doing this? Why take the hard road when there was nothing to look forward to? His copy was on the ARC, Catherine’s copy was on the ARC, everyone on Pathos-II was on the ARC and sailing around in space without a care in the world. Their future was uncertain, for all he knew. And he was the last living… even that brings him to question as he notches another dead glowstick into a beacon’s dead light.

Was he even considered ‘living’ at this point?

He knows this is not a world worth living, hampered down in the bottom of the ocean.

Simon shovels that thought aside, the negativity he fought so hard to bottle up as he forces himself to the next beacon, sticking the dying glowsticks into loose sediment. “You have a death wish,” the voice mumbles, surging into his vision as he turns around.

“And? So what!” He shouts, “I’m not going to curl up and die just like that!” He tucks the glowsticks at the base of his current beacon, forcing himself onto his feet with the make-shift axe held tight. “I want to live, damn it!” He shouts, storming himself over to the mimicry of himself – a body trailing with sealed structure gel, red eyes staring down into his own as they hover above the ground.

“Catherine,” his voice mumbles, “you don’t want to speak to her again. You’re just struggling to find something to hold onto.”

“Shut up, I don’t need some self-reflective bullshit! I’m going to Omicron and I’m going to figure out what I’m going to do next. One fucking step at a time, I don’t need some grandiose fucking plan like Catherine! Just keep moving on, that’s what I’ve done before!” As his vision surges, fragmenting, pixelating, he doesn’t catch the glowstick flickering out.

“Are you?” His own voice taunting him makes his nerves tremble, enraged, exhausted.

“Yes!” He yells at his hallucination, trying to refrain himself from lashing out – he was never one to become physical, too afraid of hurting others. Echoes of Nicolai and the unnamed bounces through his memory, metal rattling against his armor. When he looks up, the figment is gone, vanished into the swelling ocean current as he turns himself, hissing and kicking himself internal.

Fighting with his own illusions.

He collects the remaining glowsticks, a small handful as he tries to seek out the next spot in the dimming lights, almost groping through the darkness and waving his shortened weapon against the ocean floor. If he can’t follow the beacons to safety, then he must follow the sediment footpaths weaving through the obstructions, abandoning the glowsticks as he wanders himself down the final stretch to the halfway station.

A surge knocks him as he can see the illuminated shape of the metal structure bleed into his sightline, wandering into the open shelter and palming over the power-saving screens off the side of the machinery bay. Hands coax him alone the creaking metal as he wanders inside, hunkering down into a corner as the pressure wave presses against the structure’s housing. A hand holds over the omni-tool as his optics drift closed, grounding himself to the presence of reality. As long as there’s still something he can do, he’ll keep on living, even as the world around him is made silent, at least he can keep active, trying to do something in this miserable life. Simon’s hand pats the wrapped omnitool with a sigh, “we’re almost there,” he whispers, “just need to get to the climber… then we’re home free.”

He doesn’t even know if the climber has enough power to run; a realization that drives him to lie his helmet back against the bay wall. Releasing a disgruntled groan.

Simon thinks back on his figment’s words… that he has some sort of death wish for even pursuing the possibility of finding his way back to Omicron, venturing through the disparaging unknown without any further thought. He has defenses… but his ideas? Spur of the moment, grasping at any chance he has to keep moving towards the next place he feels is ‘safe’. He may have a weapon to defend himself, but what are the chances that it’d be useful? It’s another weight he’s carrying, another item to keep track of.

He pulls his knees into his chest, lying his head and wrapping his arms as the pressure waves shake the structure around him. The figment was right; even though it was a manifestation, it was as conscientious as Ross’ twisted rotting figment that guided him into WAU’s chamber. They were constructs of the structure gel that gave this body life and gifted the WAU it’s boiling poison; it spoke truths, no matter how harsh it was. His every motion is nonsense, a suicidal drive to see where he is at the end.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, knocking his head back with an exhausted sigh. Suicidal tendencies, a death wish, the ever-present lingering fear of dying as he wanders solely alone, but he doesn’t care if his fears do happen – he’s just going to end up dying anyway. That part of him runs exhausted, willing to just wallow in the darkness and yearning to slowly slip away, even as a deep spark inside him pleads to keep going.

A want to survive the improbable and impossible.

Simon shoves himself from the wall of the bay, fist pressing as he strains himself back to his feet.

“Almost there,” his speakers muffle in the darkness as his headlamp flickers off, groping in the darkness as static surges through his electric cortex. Hands grasp around the metal, shoving a linked door to the side as he wanders through the structure, fumbling through until his headlight connection flickers back – the static in his head subsided. “Fucking hallucinations,” he scoffs, leaning out through an unhinged door into the depths towards the climber.

It again flickers in the distance; red eyes piercing in the settling surge.

He’s drawn to follow it as he holds his emotional brick close to his chest, forgoing the chair metal axe he originally tooled as a defense as the ocean swarms around him. It leads him to follow through the sedimentary path connecting beacon to beacon, their lanterns barely bleeding into the depths of his vision. Simon can barely make them out as he moves between them – lead only by the surging in his equipment as he meets the shambling shape of his aggressive hallucination.

Bulky, silent, staring; it stares solemn with its back to him, staring at a dark mass Simon can barely make out on his slow approach. Pressure swarms through the rifts in the stone features of the abyss, making the shape waver and roll into a cluster of stones – his figment displaced.

“Simon…” it whispers, surging through his optics before its becomes lost once more.

Dirt ruffles around him as his feet drag into the sedimentary sands, kicking up stones as he wades down towards the small embankment the item rolled – coming to a stop as the cloud wisps over the crumpled, too familiar, shape of a diving suit covered in trailing WAU nodes.

His nerves are puzzled, dread surging through him as his hands tremble down around the dented helmet of his abandoned precursor. Hadn’t he drained his battery back in Omicron?

A myriad of fissures covers the glass face, cracks that hold in the fragments of metal and bone wedging between shredded piece of flesh and ill staining blood. Below the helmet the suit is ragged and limp in his hands, the WAU nodes barely luminescent in the darkness as his headlamp flickers off. Stunned, Simon kneels, his cortex straining to find the signal of the Simon’s black box, muddled in the vicious decompression cramped into the helmet unit.

He can hear his own voice run panicked, speakers surging between whimpers and shouts, straining to force sobs softened. Metal echoes through the feedback audio, the signal of pacing as the internal mic picks up shuttering, grotesque wheezes. “I haVE to JUMP,” screeches through the audio lines, flesh tightening and vocal through the signal. Through it Simon can make out the frantic movements, haphazard motions against the metal dock that the climber would connect. Words are muffled as audio screeches inside his head, unable to make out the shameless garbles of the dead man’s fragmented thoughts.

And sudden, breathing is forced slow, feet held firm over the metal walkway. “HerEWEGO,” creaks before metal pounds through the audio – and all sounds drops out after a particularly loud thump.

The silence of the ocean surrounds the recording – he casted himself into the abyss.

A cracking in glass is the first sign of danger, a surging in the audio before a garbled scream, a choking that is unfazed by water rushing into the diving suit, pustulating muscle and fat through the suit and pressing the glass to hold firm. His own voice screams into the darkness as organs are vacuumed into the slurry, barely conscious under the ocean’s increasing pressure until the black box only picks up whimpers… crying… hopeless… croaking before the depths becomes the only sound.

The audio cuts out – the end of life signals.

Simon stares at the mass held within his palms, his vision drawn narrow as his mind wavers through the anguish of hearing his own blood curdling screams for help, filled with panicked cries for help as the Simon’s body was compressed into the size of a basketball.

And he lingers there, gaze setting back to the blanket of darkness encompassing him, the trailing of diminished lighting in the distance… He drops the limp suit decorated with WAU nodes, sullen silent as the limbs of his prior body sways in the currents.

“I’m sorry…” barely whispered.

Keep moving, his body begs, turning himself back onto the route to the climber.

He’s almost there…

Almost freed.


	23. Ascension of chains in the oppressive black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, comments and sharing are encouraged! -+-

Simon grips firmly around the omni-tool tethered to his arm as he stares out into the diluted darkness, the mild glow of his destination bleeding a mild glee into his aching systems. Bioluminescent creatures hover around the heat-vents as he wanders, dissipating the scavenging sea life with his boots as he steps over the carcasses littering the beaconed trail. A flicker in his system warns him of his hallucination rising again, manifesting within the doorway of a building on the outer rim of the site. Red eyes stare him down as he passes, Simon holding the omni-tool close to his chest as he turns away from the false company – their disappearance dragging through his system connection.

Spotlight illuminate the climber on his approach, fading into view as he wanders close. Its cage still runs rampant with rot as he steps over the squishy WAU structures, their hard shells cracking beneath his feet. The screen at the feet of the platform beeps its flicking error for a LUMAR link.

The bars are marred with bite marks of curious sea creatures, his hands wrapping against the jagged metal structure as he pulls himself in with an aching sigh. Within it he unwraps the tie-down strap from his chest, pulling the backpack down beneath his arm as he crumbles down into one of the many seats – head held in hands as his speakers whistle and sigh.

Emotions tumble through his systems and nerves, a pulsating relief overcoming with bitter anxiety he chokes back. He’s safe. He’s at the climber. Omicron is above him. He overrides the torrenting emotions, looking off to where the control console is nestled at his side, above where he dropped the backpack and the thick tie-down strap. It still sits muted, of course, waiting to be active once more – that’s if it still holds any power. 

Simon holds up his wrist, looking down at his sentimental brick as his other hand brushes over the wrapped lump held against his arm, curious if the connection will still work within the depths.

He slowly begins to unravel the bindings around the omni-tool, allowing the water-soaked fabric drift as he lets it fall end over end. Brushing waters make the leads drift over his lap as his fingers pull them free from one another; his breathing settles calm as his motions are made slow and methodical. Enhanced focus leaves him in a serenity as he lets the item wiggle free from his wrist, sinking into his awaiting palm as his sight drifts from it to the quiet screen at his left.

The tie-down fabric drifts as he pushes himself up from the seat, staring over the omni-tool.

A hope for it to work.

He presses it down into the connection panel, holding his hand over the illuminating screen as it flickers and beeps for a connection. And waits.

The climber sits quiet and dead. No luck.

His hand drifts from the console, leaning back onto the central column that holds the structure stable, encasing the lead chain that vanishes into the abyss above him. An exhausted sigh brushes through his speakers as he stares into the distance between the ceiling bars, sinking down with the backpack nestling between his sullen knees.

“Now what,” his voice whispers, optics drifting close as he leaves himself to just exist among the abyss; to feel the ocean currents swarm around him and the rattling cage of the climber, to the slurry of the ocean around him. Static surges through his system, but he lets it be, even as his voice calls for him, a begging to end the suffering, to succumb, to let the unending sea find his peace instead of continuing recklessly.

It’s a fear of the unknown, fear of the inevitable. He’s going to die eventually, why not right now?

A hand pushes himself up against the ribbing of the central chain line, hoisting himself back to his feet with the backpack dragged upwards through the water, drifting as he rights himself proper. Beneath the glow of his headlamp the material contorts around the objects inside, fingers fumbling in the material as he wrestles the back zipper open. The contents sink the bag as he settles himself back into a seat, unwinding the long tie-down strap from the object’s arm holds.

He’s got the three different tie-down straps, cutters, a wrench, a knee hammer, and the two metal hooks sinking the bag, his mind fumbling with ideas of how to climb the miles of chains aching above him. Without power to the climber, the only way he can get back to Omicron is to climb, pulling his body weight up through the oppressive depths with nothing but the ocean surrounding him. The thought of it makes the billowing dread swell; dampening it as he focuses his concentration elsewhere, cementing it to the how instead of the what.

It’s not what he’s going to do, but how he’s going to do it.

How is he going to make his way up the lead, how is he going to hold onto the chain, how is he going to fashion them from the materials he has at hand? The metal hooks still in their housing are his first thought, pulling them from the depths of the backpack as the tie-downs writhe in the ocean swells. The ones around his wrist sway as he tries to move the ends over to where he holds the hook, scaling their size against another before he makes his conclusion.

Simon lets the heavy hooks land on his lap as the backpack droops down to the floor, fingers fussing the tie-down straps loose as he frees them from his wrist. And he pulls the loops open so he can pull the hooks down against the ratchet end, cranking it tightly against the double-wounded housing of the hooks he stole from PHI. Both are tested when he’s finished, letting his weight hang above the floor as his tired muscles pull the cage mounted hooks, leads wrapped around his hands. He’s only seen people climb, never has tried it himself.

But what if his grip fails; what is his safety net? His mind aches, recalling the crushing of his precursors form.

To it, he wraps the thick tie-down around his gut, knotting one hook tightly at the edge to create his make-shift snap hook and leaving himself with a long six feet of space between his body and the hooked end.

Then he undoes the work

Simon ties them further down, the ends made even as he draws them together, knotting them closer to his body and once more every foot or so – nothing hurts by being careful, he rationalizes as he stares up into the depths above.

Metal clangs are muffled as he climbs the ladder onto the top, fingers jamming between the small links as he strains to lift himself up with the slippery grasp. His hold is strong, but his fingers are too thick to last for long, sinking back onto the climber with a sigh; then he tries to hook attached to his chest, wedging it between the thickest of the three chains as he tries to pull himself up again, hands balling at the unmoving metal as he drags himself up, legs entangling with the metal as they squeeze around them. When one leg is well wedged between them he pulls his chest close, pulling the hook attached to his chest up and above his head.

And he lets himself go, watching as the hook strains in the shifted load – but it holds.

That’s all he needs.

Simon’s hands move frantically as he undoes the hook, sinking back with a thump onto the roof of the climber. Below he gathers the backpack and the omni-tool again, stuffing Catherine’s captive device into the front pocket and snagging the zipper in the floating fabric. It sits nestled in the front pocket as he secures the back zipper, throwing the pack over his shoulders before he climbs one last time. In his left hand the hooked loose tie-down strap is tethered as tight as he can manage, yanking the material taut with both hands in perpendiculars.

He stares up into the darkness, his only solace the chain’s connection to Omicron far, far out of his reach.

“For now,” his speakers squeak, a hand gripping around a set of chain, finding its place among the mess.

His other hand hooks the metal hook as far up as he can reach, locking it a chain set. And he pulls, supporting himself with his other hand and his legs as they drift away from the top of the climber.

Hand over fist he pulls his sinking weight upwards, notching his chest-bound hook every so often as he begins to ascend. For a while, he just never looks down, constantly focused on his task on pulling himself up through the depths as the current pushes him around like a toy.

There’s a fear that rises through his throat as he notches the hook above him, looking around himself through the depths surrounding him, the only thing in sight being the chains above and below. It leaves him with a tightening in his throat, an ache that doesn’t go away as he persists upwards, the darkness never fading as he moves chain link to chain link. He lingers completely helpless, at whim to the creatures that still exist beyond the WAU’s influence, the ones that are untainted by the structure gel leaks.

Would the sea life continue like this, with the WAU’s tumorous growths still ever present? How long will it take for them to finally fizzle out, hallowed by his poison. A remnant made into micro-havens for the life still existing?

The WAU creatures might’ve ate everything that wasn’t infected already, his pessimistic side protests. An anxiety that washes over him as he curls the hook to fasten within another link. His limbs are aching, uncertainty wavers through him as he’s not sure how far up he is from the climber now. There’s no point of reference around him beyond his own upward shifting of hooked holds. There’s nothing stopping him, and nothing forcing him to keep going.

There’s only him. There’s only Simon.

He snags his hand hook upwards, legs winding around the chains loosened by his constant grip.

Over and over he continues the motions.

Hand hook snagging. Pulling himself upwards.

Chest hook snagging; then hand hook snagging. Pulling himself upwards.

Each time his thoughts begin to linger he tries to pull them straight, counting the chain links as they pass by his piercing view, echoes of his voice gasping and grunting as he pulls upwards.

There’s nothing to keep his mind occupied as it turns into routine.

“I need to take a break,” he gasps, snagging his wrist mounted hook into a chain link. His hand dangles as his arm wraps itself in the chains, his legs doing the same as he stares out into the ocean surrounding him. Above him lies a very soft tint, bioluminescent figures echoing in the darkness as they drift around the chains.

Simon shuffles, letting his right hand free to outstretch into the water, watching as one of the squishy figures drift down around his gloved hand. It’s light barely reflects on his metal cuffs, letting the current take it as others follow suit – not by their volition as they try and turn themselves through the gentle current, their small bodies made helpless by the opposing current.

He only watches as they twilight from his sight; his hand lying outstretched.

Red eyes catch him off-guard as a weight drags him downwards, caught by the hooks and chains as he tries to affirm his grasp, thrashing his arm from the sudden weight. It’s his figment, wrapping and holding his hand hostage, its legs pulled as static screeches.

In a surge of blinding glitches, the figment is gone, Simon holding the chain tightly as his heart beats frantic.

“What the FUCK,” he cries out, staring down into the depths, gasping as he tries to force his nerves calm.

“There’s nothing waiting for you,” his hallucination cries, “not even Catherine.”

It lingers above him, holding onto the chains, body sinking downwards as it begins to let go.

“Just fall,” it whispers, “it’s better this way.”

“Fuck. You,” Simon hisses, snagging his chest hook higher.

He shakes away the figment, blinding himself only to the shapes of the chains as his hands can feel out the links above him. Even as his vision surges, audio screeching inside his ears, he keeps going, biting out in the sense of his mouth as he pushes himself higher, dragging himself up ever so further.

Audio screeches in his receptors, fingers clenching around the chains as the surges bite through his nerves. Anxiety blooms through him; would he finally fail? Would he fall back down to where the climber sits dead? Would he be left alone down there until his batteries finally run dry?

His grip affirms, clawing upwards as his legs tighten around the chains. “Fuck you. Fuck this,” he hisses, “Pathos-2 can make a space gun, but can’t put the fucking elevator inside,” he curses, “I mean, it would be more hazardous if decompression occurs,” he grunts, pulling himself upwards. “And longer fall, and more gravity.” He chuckles. “Okay, so it would be a bad idea. But why the fuck not have some sort of back-up plan?”

He bickers and complains as he pulls himself up, moving from topic to topic inconsistent, just something to occupy his higher functions as he works his way up the climber chains. His head aches, his chest aches, his arms aches, his legs ache – he just wants this all over with. Without having to give into dying like his hallucination suggests.

It would be the easiest. But what would that accomplish?

He holds himself firmly around the chains, letting his limbs rest coiled around the metal even as it shakes. At first, he doesn’t take notice, staring out into the endless sea around him, where the water faintly looks brighter than before. It’s been a while, he’s not sure how long, but he’s made progress. That’s all that matters to him.

As he tries to hook himself further upwards, he finds it difficult to hook it, trying three times before he’s successful. The next try he does with his chest-bound hook he has just as much trouble; the shaking moves through his arms and legs, echoing through his head as he stares down into the darkness. There’s nothing, but he feels the trembling. The anxious part of him worries its his hallucination again, an aggravation towards its desire to relinquish his self-preservation for emotional peace. Or it could be one of WAU’s monsters had finally found him? He curses his lack of defense, his only free arm emerging from the wraps of chains.

And Simon waits, staring down into the darkness.

And waits.

And still waits.

The chains keep rattling, tightening around his limbs until he frees them, drifting and tethered only by the hooks connected to his hand and chest.

How’s the climber working?

He doesn’t want to question it; just chalk it up to some weird circumstances. But it still makes him worried as it begins to fade in beneath him. It’s not rushing up the chains, lazily ascending beneath him and allowing him to unhook himself from the chain links as it rises beneath his feet. He floats untethered as it makes its way below him, letting himself drift onto it and drags himself towards the closed hatch. The hooks on his chest and wrist catch as he wrestles the top hatch open, forcing his way into the cage with a shudder.

The screen is still dark, the lights dead; and the climber still ascends.

Simon sinks himself into the only open chair, holding the bag on his lap as the climber hoists itself through the depths, rising himself into the ocean turning from azure to cerulean. His hands wring around the fabric of the bag, twisting it as nerves run erratic, overloaded with relief as he can see the links far above him, the figments of the climber’s connection forming out of a silhouette.

He made it, he actually made it.

Hands scramble through the bag, plucking the omni-tool and holding it against his helmet. “We made it, Catherine,” he cries, watching as the climber hooks itself into its roof-top housing. “We’re back in Omicron.

…

He almost punches the airlock controls when they refuse to budge with a single button press, forgetting for a moment that the omni-tool may still work before he swipes it across. Machination grinds within the structure, an alarm muffled as he impatiently waits for the door to swing open, to let him inside where its bright and there’s some semblance of life left even if it’s been twisted by the WAU.

When it opens he’s quick to swipe the omni-tool over it, staring down the final door as more alarms blare, screeching as the water drains and hisses through the pipes. He worries that they’ll burst, that something will go wrong, that the power will go out and he’ll be trapped inside the air-lock chamber once again.

But it never happens, releasing him into the staging area where there’s nothing but open space.

His cry of triumph is short as he sticks the omni-tool into its connection, the screen surging and becoming askew. He waits for it, he waits for it to connect, leaning over it as hopeful as he could be in his circumstances.

But as he waits for it, dread begins to take hold. Was the omni-tool damaged? Was Catherine damaged? The former wouldn’t make sense; it functioned as normal, but what about the codex chip implanted in the back, where Catherine’s personality was compressed – did he damage it back in the pilot seat? His fingers curl, staring at the spinning connection icon. Was she damaged on the trek to TAU? To the climber? Climbing up the climber? He always used to hold the omni-tool, even through he was tossed around, there was never an issue. Blasted out of pipes, knocked over by blows, the few times he had dropped the omni-tool in panic. Was it the wet fabric that caused damage? Because there was nothing covering the connection, never, able to walk with it freely within the abyss, for as far as he’s none water never was an issue. So it might’ve been in the back pack, or when she was tied to his arm. Could it have been his specific type of structure gel? Anxiety takes hold of him. Had letting her stay in contact that long let his structure gel meld with hers and poison what let her remain sentient as long as the tool was connected? Was that the thing? His fists are balling against the console, half knelt down as he forces himself to look away and return his gaze back to the small screen. There’s a connection, he can see it, he knows its there, but somethings wrong, he messed something up; and he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s such a fuck up, he complains to himself, feeling the grips of a panic attack coursing through his system. He should just be dead, he should’ve let the abyss take him when he had the chance. A desire over takes him to yank out the buffering connection and take himself back out to the sea, throw himself into the abyss. He stares at the open airlock.

Beneath his palm, as it grazes to hold the omni-tool, the connection stabilizes but surges.

‘nG iDiOT!” Booms, startling Simon with the volume and the bitter static, tripping over his own feet. “ItLDuHOW iT works,” stumbles through the audio signal, Catherine’s profile blooming misplaced and malformed above the omni-tool’s screen display. She can see Simon splayed out on the floor, pushing himself up as his breathing still trembles. “SIMoN,” her audio glitches, becoming hushed as she tries to speak.

He scrambles to his feet, hands held against the computer screen. “Catherine!” He shouts, dull fingers pressing against the sides, hopeless to whatever issue is causing the circuitry discrepancies. She runs mute as her profile flickers and fades, “Catherine! Can you hear me!”

Nothing.

His nerves run panicked, chest aching as all he can do is wait.

He hates waiting.

He hates being hopeless.

He hates being alone.

He buckles back against the console, holding his head in his hands, frantically tossing the backpack off his shoulders as it pads him and makes him frustrated. Her noises ring painful, her voice distorted, fuzzy, broken, static, warping and speeding up.

He curls his legs against his chest, staining to hold himself together.

Was it really all for nothing?

Was this really where he was going to end up alone?

His hands affix around his helmet, straining against the structure gel connections.

He’s tired, exhausted; he doesn’t want to feel anymore, he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

“sIMON,” squawks around him, making his hands still. “DoNTDOTHAT,” the speaker speeds, a voice gargling disjointed.

“Catherine?” his speakers cry, rampant with the simulation of crying. “Can you hear me?” he whispers, his hands lingering in the air, staring up behind him where her profile sits fragmented.

“YES,” squawks, “I’m TRYINGtogettheconnection STABLE,” her voice is soft, reassuring. “HOWDIDyou?”

Simon’s breathing shakes, crawling himself up to lean on the console.

“I… climbed here,” he laughs.

“Simon… it’s been almost a week. How’d you make it from PHI all the way back here?”

Images of stunted corpses flood his cortex, fingers digging at the console.

“I… walked…” he looks down at his arm, down at his leg.

“Where…” she starts, pausing to rework herself, “how did you get your arm back?”

Simon stands quietly, looking away from the screen for a moment. “I took it from your…. from Catherine’s corpse… I damaged my leg too getting out of the pilot seat.”

“Oh, Simon,” she sighs, her speakers surging for a moment, making her grumble, “damn system is still unstable. I don’t know how long it can hold.”

“Can you… fix it?” he whispers.

“Maybe,” she mumbles, altering her attention again. “I’m sorry I yelled; I was just… frustrated –“

“I know,” Simon sighs, “I’m to blame, I was too overwhelmed by everything.”

Silence.

“So…” her audio breathes, “you took my arm?”

“Yes… and your leg. I wouldn’t be able to get back without them,” he tries to chuckle.

“Oh, how sweet,” she mocks.

Silence.

“So… what do we do now? The ARK is launched, we’re all that’s left of humanity,” Simon huddles himself down to the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“I… I don’t know… I didn’t think this far ahead,” Catherine’s voice whispers.

“Neither did I… I just took everything one step at a time.” And Simon closes his eyes. “How about we just… talk…figure out where to go from there.”

“…that sounds good, Simon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who've given this piece a chance and subsequently commented! It's been a long time coming since I started **And Simon Was Alone** , and my life situation has changed drastically since I had started.
> 
> Initially, it was just an outlet for my own personal frustrations, a coping tool, as well as the draw that _no_ , giving up is not the only answer when everything feels futile. It may be hard, it may be painful, mentally and physically, but given enough time, taking one step at a time, you can make your way someplace better - abandon time limit, as it provides only stress, as long as there is momentum, there **will** be changes. The emotional abyss can't hold you forever.


End file.
